WILD  PASTURES 


WINTHROP  PACKARD 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


WILD    PASTURES 


He  was  still  sitting  on  his  perch  greeting  the  gold  of  the 
morning  sun  with  melodious  uproar 

IPagf  j/J 


WILD    PASTURES 


BY 


WINTHROP   PACKARD 


ILLUSTRATED     BY 
CHARLES   COPELAND 


BOSTON 

SMALL,   MAYNARD  AND   COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


U 


COPYRIGHT,  1909 

Small,  flfcaEnarfc  &  Company 

(INCOBPOBATBD) 


Entered  at  Stationers"  Hall 


THE   UNIVERSITY    PRESS,    CAMBRIDGE,   U.S.A. 


L\ 


TO 
MY    WIFE    AND    THE    WEE    BOY 

WHO   HAVE   MADE  AND   SHARED 
THE  PASTURE  SUNSHINE 


M350(>36 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

WAYLAYING  THE  DAWN i 

STALKING  THE  WILD  GRAPE    ....  25 

THE  FROG  RENDEZVOUS 47 

A  BUTTERFLY  CHASE 69 

DOWN  STREAM     .    .   ••._,.    .....  89 

BROOK  MAGIC ,    .    .  109 

IN  THE  PONKAPOAG  BOGS     .    .     ,    .    .  131 

SOME  BUTTERFLY  FRIENDS 151 

THE  RESTING  TIME  OF  THE  BIRDS    .    .  173 

THE  POND  AT  Low  TIDE 193 

How  THE  RAIN  CAME 215 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


He  was  still  sitting  on  his  perch  greeting  the  gold  of 

the  morning  sun  with  melodious  uproar     .  Frontispiece 

OPPOSITE  PAGE 
The  fox  may  slink  for  an  hour  unscared,  waiting  with 

watchful  eye  on  the  neighboring  chicken  coop    .         6 
The  mother  bird,  dancing  and  mincing  along      .     .       38 

Out  from  among  the  birches  she  sails  gracefully,  a 

veritable  queen  of  the  fairies 64 

There  was  the  swish  of  wings,  the  snip-snap  of  a 

bird's  beak,  and  it  was  all  over 86 

The  way  of  the  "  kiver  "  is  this.  There  is  a  single, 
snappy,  business-like  bob,  then  another,  then 
three  in  quick  succession 96 

That  such  things  are  not  seen  oftener  is  simply 
because  people  are  dull  and  go  to  bed  instead 
of  sitting  out  under  the  witch-hazel  at  midnight 
of  a  full  moon 114 

Of  a  clear  midsummer  evening  you  may  hear  the 
muskrat  grubbing  roots  there  .  .  .  and  hear  his 
snort  and  splash  when  he  dives  at  sudden  sight 
of  you 142 

ix 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

OPPOSITE   PAGE 

Every  boy  who  knows  the  country  in  summer  knows 
him  by  his  rich,  red  coloration,  his  strong,  black- 
bordered  wings  with  their  black  veins  .  .  .  160 

The  English  sparrow  has  the  true  instincts  of  the 

browbeating  coward 180 

The  skunk  does  n't  know  where  he  is  going  and  he 

isn't  even  on  his  way 198 

My  lone  quail  sat  on  a  rock  in  the  pasture,  tipped 
his  head  back  a  little,  swelled  his  white  throat, 
and  whistled 222 


WAYLAYING  THE  DAWN 


WAYLAYING  THE   DAWN 

1  HE  most  beautiful  place  which  can 
be  found  on  earth  of  a  June  morning  is 
a  New  England  pasture,  and  fortunate 
are  we  New  Englanders  who  love  the 
open  in  the  fact  that,  whatever  town  or 
city  may  be  our  home,  the  old-time  pas- 
tures lie  still  at  our  very  doors. 

The  way  to  the  one  that  I  know  best 
lies  through  the  yard  of  an  old,  old 
house,  a  yard  that  stands  hospitably  al- 
ways open.  It  swings  along  by  the  an- 
cient barn  and  turns  a  right  angle  by  a 
worn-out  field.  Then  you  enter  an  old 
lane  leading  to  what  has  been  for  more 
than  a  century  a  cow  pasture.  Here  the 
close-cropped  turf  is  like  a  lawn  between 
the  gray  and  mossy  old  stone  fences  that 
3 


WILD    PASTURES 

the  farmer  of  a  century  and  more  gone 
grubbed  from  the  rocky  fields  and  made 
into  metes  and  bounds.  There  they  stand 
to-day,  just  as  he  set  them,  grim  me- 
mentos of  toil  which  the  softening  hand 
of  time  has  made  beautiful.  Where 
cattle  still  travel  such  lanes  day  by  day 
these  walls  are  undecorated,  but  many 
of  the  lanes  are  untraveled  and  have 
been  so  these  fifty  years.  Such  are  gar- 
landed with  woodbine,  sentineled  by  red 
cedars,  and  fragrant  with  the  breath  of 
wild  rose,  azalea,  and  clethra. 

Side  by  side  with  this  lawn-like  lane 
is  another  which  was  once  traversed  by 
the  cattle  of  the  next  farm,  but  which 
has  not  been  used  for  a  lifetime.  In 
this  the  wild  things  of  the  wood  are 
untrammeled,  save  by  one  another,  and 
they  hold  it  in  riotous  possession.  Just 
as  the  first  lane  is  tame  and  sleek  this 
4 


WAYLAYING   THE   DAWN 

other  is  wild  and  unkempt.  The  rasp- 
berry and  blackberry  tangle  catches  you 
by  the  leg  if  you  enter,  as  if  to  hold  you 
until  birch  and  alder,  cedar  and  sassa- 
fras, look  you  over  and  decide  whether 
or  not  you  are  of  their  lodge.  If  you 
give  them  the  right  grip  you  may  pass. 
If  not,  you  will  be  well  switched  and 
scratched  before  you  are  allowed  to 
go  on. 

Here  the  wild  grape  climbs  unpruned 
from  wall  to  cedar,  from  cedar  to  birch 
and  from  birch  to  oak,  whence  it  sends 
its  witching  fragrance  far  on  the  morn- 
ing air.  You  may  stalk  a  wild  grape 
in  bloom  a  mile  by  the  scent  and  be  well 
rewarded  by  finding  the  very  place 
where  the  air  tingles  with  it. 

This  lane  is  wild,  and  the  wild  things 
of  the  woods  that  come  on  fleet  wing 
and  nimble  foot  frequent  it.  You  may 
5 


WILD    PASTURES 

never  see  a  partridge  in  the  sleek  lane, 
and  if  by  chance  the  red  fox  crosses  it 
he  does  so  gingerly  and  as  if  it  were 
hot  under  foot.  In  the  other,  however, 
the  fox  may  slink  for  an  hour  unscared, 
waiting  with  watchful  eye  on  the  neigh- 
boring chicken  coop,  the  red  squirrel 
builds  his  nest  in  the  cedar,  and  the 
partridge  leads  her  young  brood  among 
the  blackberry  bushes  of  an  early 
morning. 

The  azalea  sends  out  its  white  fra- 
grance from  the  one  lane,  and  never  a 
buttercup,  even,  nods  to  the  wind  in  the 
other;  yet  you  love  the  smooth  shorn 
one  best.  It  talks  to  you  of  the  homely 
life  of  the  farm,  the  lazy  cattle  drowsing 
contentedly  to  the  barn  at  milking  time 
while  the  farmer's  boy  sings  as  he  puts 
up  the  bars  behind  them.  You  love  it 
best  because,  however  much  you  may 
6 


The  fox  may  slink  for  an  hour  unseated,  waiting  with  watchful 
eye  on  the  neighboring  chicken  coop 


WAYLAYING   THE    DAWN 

love  the  wild  things,  the  lure  of  the 
home-leading  and  well-trodden  paths  is 
strong  upon  you.  It  is  more  than  a 
sturdy,  rough-built  stone  wall  that  sep- 
arates the  two  lanes;  there  is  all  the 
long  road  from  the  wilderness  down  to 
civilization  between  them. 

For  the  story  the  pasture  teaches  us, 
more  than  anything  else  is  the  story 
of  how  the  fathers  wrested  the  do- 
minion of  the  New  England  earth  from 
the  wilderness  and  of  the  way  in  which 
the  wilderness  still  hems  their  world 
about  and  not  only  waits  the  opportu- 
nity to  spring  upon  us  and  regain  pos- 
session, but  invests  our  fields  like  an 
invading  army  and  takes  by  stealth 
what  it  may  not  win  by  force. 

The  pasture  bars  divide  the  world  of 
the  smooth-trodden  lane  and  the  close- 
shorn  fields  from  the  picket  line  of  the 
7 


WILD    PASTURES 

wilderness.  Let  us  pause  a  moment 
upon  the  line  of  demarcation.  Behind 
us  are  the  entrenchments  of  civilization, 
the  farmhouse  and  barn  and  other 
buildings,  —  its  fort.  The  town  road  is 
the  military  way  leading  from  fortified 
camp  to  fortified  camp,  the  mowing  field 
its  glacis,  and  the  stone  walls  its  outer 
entrenchments.  These  the  cohorts  of 
the  wilderness  continually  dare,  and  are 
kept  from  carrying  only  by  the  vigilance 
of  the  farmer  and  his  men. 

Let  but  this  vigilance  relax  for  a 
year,  a  spring  month  even,  and  bramble 
and  bayberry,  sweet  fern  and  wild  rose, 
daring  scouts  that  they  are,  will  have 
a  foothold  that  they  will  yield  only 
with  death.  Close  upon  these  will  fol- 
low the  birches,  the  light  infantry 
which  rushes  to  the  advance  line  as  soon 
as  the  scouts  have  found  the  foothold. 


WAYLAYING   THE    DAWN 

These  intrench  and  hold  the  field  des- 
perately until  pine  and  hickory,  maple 
and  oak,  sturdy  men  of  the  main  line 
of  battle,  arrive,  and  almost  before  you 
know  it  the  farm  is  reclaimed.  The 
wilderness  has  regained  its  lost  ground 
and  the  cosmos  of  the  wild  has  wiped 
out  that  curious  chaos  which  we  call 
civilization. 

In  this  debatable  land  of  the  pasture, 
this  Tom  Tiddler's  ground  where  the 
fight  between  man  and  the  encroaching 
wilderness  goes  yearly  in  favor  of  the 
wilderness,  dwell  the  pasture  people. 
The  woodchuck,  the  rabbit,  and  even 
the  fox  have  their  burrows  here,  the 
woodchuck  and  the  rabbit  finding  the 
farmer's  clover  field  and  garden  patch 
a  convenient  foraging  ground,  the  fox 
finding  the  chicken  coop  and  the  rabbit 
equally  convenient. 

9 


WILD    PASTURES 

The  pasture  is  the  happy  hunting- 
ground  of  the  hawks  and  owls;  though 
they  dwell  by  preference  in  the  deep 
wood,  the  nearer  approaching  to  the 
forest  primeval  the  better,  but  the  crow 
often  nests  in  a  pine  among  a  group  of 
several  in  the  pasture.  The  pasture  is 
peculiarly  the  home  of  scores  of  varie- 
ties of  what  one  might  term  the  half 
wild  birds,  the  thrushes  from  honest 
robin  down  to  the  catbird,  warblers, 
finches,  and  a  host  of  others  who  are 
as  shy  of  the  deep  woods  as  they  are 
of  the  highway;  and  here,  in  those 
magic  hours  that  come  between  the  first 
faint  flush  of  dawn  and  sunrise,  you 
may  hear  the  full  chorus  of  their  matins 
swell  in  triumphant  jubilation. 

Here  in  Eastern  Massachusetts  the 
dawn  comes  early,  very  early,  in  June. 
It  will  be  a  little  before  three  that  if 

10 


WAYLAYING    THE    DAWN 

you  watch  the  east  you  will  see  it  flush 
a  bit  like  the  coming  of  color  on  the 
face  of  a  dark-tressed  maiden  who  has 
had  sudden  news  of  the  coming  of  her 
lover.  This  flush  of  color  fades  again 
soon,  and  it  is  evident  that  it  is  all  a 
mistake,  for  the  darkness  grows  thicker 
than  ever,  and  night,  like  that  of  the 
Apocalypse,  is  upon  the  face  of  the 
world.  The  dawn  is  long  coming  when 
you  wait  for  it.  Joshua  evidently  has 
arisen  and  is  holding  the  sun  in  Syria 
as  of  old,  that  he  may  have  time  fur- 
ther to  confound  his  enemies. 

No  one  believes  that  there  will  be 
dawn  at  all.  You  cannot  prove  it  by  the 
wood  thrush.  He  sings  best,  indeed  he 
sings  only,  in  the  shadow,  and  often 
even  in  the  darkest  night  he  will  send 
out  a  bell-like  note  or  two  that  has  a 
soothing,  sleepy  tintinnabulation  as  of 
ii 


WILD    PASTURES 

cow-bells  shaken  afar  off  by  drowsy  cattle. 
No,  the  wood  thrush  is  not  a  reliable 
witness,  but  if  you  are  wise  in  the  ways 
of  field  and  pasture  before  dawn,  you 
may  take  evidence  from  the  chipping 
sparrow.  He  is  the  earliest  as  he  is 
one  of  the  smallest  of  the  morn-waking 
birds.  In  his  case  the  least  shall  be 
first.  I  do  not  know  if  he  really  sees 
the  dawn  or  if  he  smells  it.  There  is  a 
change  in  the  air  before  there  is  in  the 
sky,  and  perhaps  he  notes  it.  Perhaps, 
too,  being  smaller,  he  needs  less  sleep 
than  the  other  birds,  and  his  gentle  in- 
quiring note  is  a  plaint  that  the  night 
is  long  rather  than  a  prophecy  that  it 
is  ending.  But  it  is  he  that  first  pre- 
dicts with  certainty  the  coming  day,  and 
it  will  be  many  minutes  after  his  first 
call  before  the  growing  luminosity,  a 
sort  of  pale  halo  that  looms  slowly 

12 


WAYLAYING   THE    DAWN 

about  all  things,  tells  you  that  the  sun 
is  indeed  coming.  Even  then  you  are 
likely  to  hear  no  other  bird  note  for 
what  seems  a  long  time. 

Then  from  a  treetop  in  the  open 
conies  a  sort  of  surprised  ejaculation,  as 
if  some  one  said,  "  Why,  bless  me !  It 
is  morning  already,"  and  then  a  burst 
of  song  from  the  full  throat  of  a  robin. 
It  is  as  if  he  were  the  chorister  of  a 
choir  invisible,  for  he  pipes  but  a  single 
strain  before  from  treetop  to  treetop, 
near  and  heaven  only  knows  how  far, 
bursts  forth  the  mingled  melody  of  a 
great  chorus  of  robins  ringing  clarion 
notes  of  jubilee. 

They  have  the  overture  to  themselves 
all  along  in  the  open,  for  there  the 
song  sparrow  does  not  sing  till  some 
ten  minutes  later.  Of  these  again  you 
shall  hear  a  single  bird,  followed  by  a 
13 


WILD    PASTURES 

chorus  in  the  next  breath,  and  close 
upon  the  heels  of  the  sparrow  voice 
come  the  notes  of  innumerable  warblers 
of  many  kinds  whose  songs  you  shall 
not  distinguish  one  from  another  and 
name  unless  you  are  an  expert.  Behind 
these  again  come  the  chewinks  and 
thrashers,  not  so  early  risers  by  any 
means,  and  very  late  the  catbird.  The 
catbird  is  clever  but,  like  many  clever 
people,  he  is  lazy. 

Over  to  the  other  side  of  the  pasture, 
a  mile  from  the  lane  as  the  crow  flies, 
is  a  swamp  which  is  part  of  the  pas- 
ture, indeed,  but  a  part  of  the  wilder- 
ness beyond,  also.  It  was  on  the  edge 
of  this  that  I  had  chosen  to  meet  the 
dawn,  picking  my  way  to  it  through  the 
darkness  in  part  by  scent,  for  the  swamp 
has  a  musky  fragrance  of  its  own,  which 
it  sends  far  on  the  night  air.  Coming 


WAYLAYING   THE   DAWN 

down  the  slope  to  it  you  pass  through 
a  tangle  of  scrub  oak  that  leads  you  to 
a  lower  region  of  alders  snarled  with 
greenbrier  —  "  horse  brier  "  we  call  it 
familiarly. 

Here  the  ground  begins  to  be  soft, 
with  occasional  clumps  of  sphagnum 
moss,  which  is  like  a  gray-brown  carpet 
of  velvet,  not  yet  made  up,  but  tacked 
together  with  yellow  bastings  of  the 
goldthread.  Among  the  scrub  oaks  a 
stately  pine  here  and  there  shoulders 
up,  sending  you  a  reassuring  sniff  of 
pitchy  aroma.  The  scrub  oaks  know 
their  allotted  ground  and  cease  wander- 
ing when  their  toes  touch  swamp  water, 
but  the  pines  are  more  venturesome, 
and  often  lift  with  their  roots  little 
mounds  of  firm  brown  carpeted  ground 
in  the  midst  of  the  quaky  sphagnum. 
Slender  cedars  crowd  in  from  the  swamp 


WILD    PASTURES 

toward  these  pines,  plumed  like  vassal 
knights  that  rally  to  the  support  of 
their  overlord. 

On  one  of  these  pine  islands  on  the 
edge  of  the  swamp  an  oven  bird  had 
built  her  nest,  and  on  this  particular 
night  in  June  she  was  in  much  distress 
because  she  could  not  get  into  it.  The 
oven  bird  builds  a  nest  on  the  ground 
among  low  bushes  and  vines,  choosing 
often  a  spot  where  pine  needles  are 
scattered  among  the  dead  leaves.  She 
roofs  this  nest  with  care  —  and  dried 
grass  —  and  builds  a  tunnel-like  entrance 
to  it  so  that  you  may  see  neither  the 
eggs  nor  the  bird  sitting  on  them.  You 
may  step  on  an  oven  bird's  nest  before 
you  will  see  it,  even  when  looking  for 
it,  and  you  may  know  for  a  certainty 
that  it  is  within  a  definite  small  patch 
of  ground,  and  yet  hunt  long  before 
16 


WAYLAYING   THE    DAWN 

you  find  it.  The  mother  bird  had  been 
frightened  from  her  nest  by  the  crush 
of  my  foot  at  its  side  in  the  darkness, 
and  she  did  not  dare  come  back,  for  I 
had  unwittingly  sat  down  beneath  the 
pine  almost  across  the  entrance.  Fright- 
ened for  her  nest  as  well  as  herself, 
she  fluttered  about  like  a  bird  ghost, 
now  dozing  in  the  thicket  for  a  time, 
then  waking  to  strangeness  and  fear, 
and  making  her  plaint  again. 

The  wood  thrush,  brooding  her  eggs 
in  the  thicket  near  by,  heard  it  and 
was  wakeful,  and  her  mate,  never  far 
off,  now  and  again  lifted  his  head  from 
beneath  his  wing  and  drowsily  tintin- 
nabulated  a  reassuring  note  or  two,  but 
I  did  not  stir.  I  was  not  sure  that  I 
was  the  cause  of  the  oven  bird's  trouble, 
and  if  so  to  move  about  in  the  darkness 
might  well  bring  her  worse  disaster. 


WILD    PASTURES 

The  false  dawn  reddened  and  van- 
ished, the  gray  of  the  real  dawn  was 
streaked  and  then  flushed  with  rosy 
light  shot  through  with  gold,  and  a 
thousand  voices  of  jubilee  rang  from 
treetop  to  treetop  the  whole  pasture 
through  and  far  out  into  the  wood  be- 
yond, and  still  I  waited,  stretched  mo- 
tionless. A  man  might  have  thought 
me  dead,  the  victim  of  some  midnight 
tragedy,  but  the  denizens  of  the  pasture 
are  wiser  in  their  own  province  than 
that. 

In  the  gray  of  that  first  dusk,  that 
was  hardly  streaked  with  the  reassuring 
red  of  dawn,  a  crow  slipped  silent  and 
bat-like  from  the  top  of  a  neighboring 
pine.  In  that  twilight  of  early  dawn 
you  could  not  see  him  continually  as  he 
flapped  along.  The  motions  of  his 
wings  gave  him  strange  appearances 
18 


WAYLAYING   THE    DAWN 

and  disappearances  as  if  he  dodged  back 
and  forth,  flitting  up  under  cover  of 
pillars  of  mist,  yet  there  was  no  mist 
there,  only  the  uncertainties  of  early 
light  which  seems  to  come  in  squads 
rather  than  in  company  front.  This 
crow  turned  suddenly  in  his  flight  as  he 
neared  my  pine  island  in  the  swamp  and 
lighted  in  noiseless  excitement  on  a  dead 
limb.  A  moment  he  craned  his  neck, 
peering  sharply  at  my  motionless  figure. 
The  crow  is  at  times  a  scavenger,  and 
if  there  were  dead  men  about  he  wanted 
to  know  it.  For  that  matter  if  there 
was  anything  else  about  he  wanted  to 
know  it,  for  the  crow  is  likewise  a  gos- 
sip. A  moment  then  he  gazed  at  the 
motionless  figure,  then  he  vaulted  from 
the  limb  and  the  vigor  of  his  call  re- 
sounded far  and  near  as  he  flapped 
away  eastward  into  the  crimson. 
19 


WILD    PASTURES 

"Hi!  Hi!  Hi!"  he  shouted.  "Fel- 
low citizens,  there  's  a  man  in  the  woods 
here.  He  is  motionless,  but  he  is  only 
making  believe  dead.  Look  out  for 
him!" 

Far  and  near  the  cry  rang  and  was 
taken  up  by  others  of  his  tribe  who 
passed  the  word  along.  "  There  's  a  man 
in  the  woods !  "  they  shouted,  "  look  out 
for  him."  The  birds  singing  near  by 
ceased  their  songs  for  a  moment  that 
they  might  have  a  look  at  the  man,  for 
they  understand  the  crow's  note  of 
warning  as  well  as  if  they  too  spoke 
his  language. 

The  thrushes  were  singing  now,  and 
after  a  while  the  catbird,  lazy  repro- 
bate, awoke.  He  too,  like  the  crow,  is 
a  gossip,  and  more  than  that  he  is  a 
tease.  He  shook  his  head  a  little  to 
straighten  the  ruffled  feathers  of  the  neck, 

20 


WAYLAYING   THE    DAWN 

disturbed  by  their  position  for  the 
night.  He  stretched  one  leg  and  the 
wing  on  that  side  simultaneously,  then 
the  other  leg  and  the  other  wing,  a  bird 
yawn  as  expressive  as  the  human  one. 
Then  he  cocked  his  head  on  one  side 
with  a  gesture  of  pleased  surprise  and 
excitement  and  said,  "  Mi-a-aw !  "  He 
too  had  seen  the  invader  of  the  swamp. 
The  catbird  is  a  good  singer,  that  is, 
a  good  mimic.  His  taste  is  good,  too, 
for  he  imitates  only  the  best.  Here  in 
the  North  he  imitates  the  brown  thrush, 
no  doubt,  all  things  considered,  our  best 
vocalist.  So  well  does  he  imitate  him 
that  you  shall  not  say  of  a  surety  that 
this  is  the  catbird  singing  and  yonder 
is  the  thrush.  In  the  South  he  imitates 
the  mocking-bird  with  equal  fidelity.  You 
would  say  on  casual  acquaintance  that 
he  was  our  ablest  singer  and  most  ex- 

21 


WILD    PASTURES 

emplary  bird  as  he  masquerades  in  the 
voices  of  others,  but  let  him  once  be 
frightened,  or  angered,  or  over-excited 
about  anything  and  the  reprobate  part 
of  him  reasserts  itself  and  he  says  "  Mi- 
a-aw !  "  Hence  his  name,  the  catbird. 

The  catbird,  however,  has  the  courage 
of  his  convictions,  and  one  of  these  con- 
victions is  that  he  has  the  right  to  the 
satisfaction  of  an  ungovernable  and 
enormous  curiosity.  Bait  your  bird  trap 
in  the  woods  with  something  which 
strikes  a  bird  as  a  curiosity  that  courts 
immediate  investigation  and  you  will 
catch  a  catbird.  Other  birds  might  start 
for  it  but  the  catbird  would  distance 
them.  So,  after  saying  "  Mi-a-aw !  "  a 
few  times  and  drawing  no  response  to 
his  challenge,  he  flew  up  to  a  twig 
within  a  foot  of  my  head,  sat  there  a 
moment,  motionless  except  his  beady 

22 


WAYLAYING   THE    DAWN 

black  eyes  which  traversed  my  form 
from  foot  to  head,  finally  resting  on  my 
eyes.  Inadvertently  I  winked;  that  was 
the  only  motion  I  made,  but  it  was 
enough.  With  a  flirt  of  his  tail  and  a 
flip  of  his  wings  the  catbird  was  through 
the  thicket  and  out  on  the  other  side 
like  a  gray  flash,  scolding  away  at  the 
top  of  his  voice  and  seeming  to  shout 
as  the  crow  had,  "  There 's  a  man  in 
the  wood !  There  's  a  man  in  the  wood ! 
Look  out  for  him !  " 

The  crimson  and  gold  of  the  dawn 
had  softened  and  diffused  into  diaphan- 
ous mother-of-pearl  mists  of  early  day. 
The  June  morning  miracle  was  complete 
and  it  was  high  time  I  allowed  the  oven 
bird  to  come  back  and  be  assured  that 
her  nest  and  eggs  were  safe. 


23 


STALKING  THE  WILD  GRAPE 


STALKING  THE  WILD  GRAPE 

IT  was  to  be  a  moonlight  night,  yet 
the  moon  was  on  the  wane  and  would 
not  rise  until  eleven.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
pasture  birds  missed  the  moon,  or  ex- 
pected it,  for  beginning  with  the  June 
dusk  at  eight  o'clock  one  after  another 
made  brief  queries  from  red  cedar  shel- 
ter or  greenbrier  thicket.  One  or  two 
indeed  insisted  on  pouring  forth  snatches 
of  morning  song,  sending  them  questing 
through  the  darkness  for  several  min- 
utes, then  ceasing  as  if  ashamed  of  hav- 
ing been  misled. 

The  cuckoo,  of  course,  you  may  hear 

often  on  any  warm  night,  springing  his 

watchman's  rattle  chuckle  from  the  denser 

part  of  the  thicket.     But  for  the  brown 

27 


WILD    PASTURES 

thrush  to  be  announcing  morning  every 
half-hour  through  the  darkness  was  an 
absurdity  to  be  accounted  for  only  on 
the  theory  that  here  was  a  gay  young 
blood  who  was  practising  for  a  moon- 
light serenade.  And  when  the  moon 
did  come,  touching  the  tops  of  the  pines 
first  with  a  fine  edging  of  gold,  drop- 
ping a  luminous  benediction  to  the 
birches  and  diffusing  it  lower  and  lower 
till  the  whole  pasture  was  gold  and 
dusk,  the  ecstasy  of  the  thrush  knew 
no  limit.  He  poured  forth  a  perfect 
uproar  of  liquid  melody,  punctuated  with 
such  hurroos  and  whoops  of 'delight  that 
he  made  me  wonder  if  his  lady  love 
would  like  such  college-song  methods  of 
serenading. 

I  sat  up  from  my  couch  on  the  green 
moss    under    the    huckleberry    bush    to 
listen.     The  people  of  the  pasture  seemed 
28 


STALKING   THE  WILD   GRAPE 

to  have  trooped  up  to  the  call  of  the 
music.  The  red  cedars,  the  birches,  the 
huckleberry  bushes  in  the  daytime  have 
individuality  indeed,  but  in  the  night- 
time they  have  personality.  They  loom 
up  in  spots  where  by  day  you  did  not 
notice  them  at  all.  Some  red  cedars 
stand  erect  and  stiff  as  military  men 
might  on  sentinel  duty,  others  gowned 
in  black  like  monks  of  old  group  to- 
gether and  seem  to  consult,  while  all 
about  them  mingling  in  gracious  beauty 
are  the  birches  and  the  berry  bushes,  - 
the  birches  slender,  dainty  aristocrats 
gowned  in  the  thinnest  of  whispering 
silk,  the  berry  bushes  sturdy  and  com- 
fortable in  homespun.  You  are  half 
afraid  of  the  cedars,  they  are  so  black 
and  seem  to  watch  you  so  intently, 
more  than  half  in  love  with  the  birches, 
so  graceful  and  enticing,  as  they  lean 
29 


WILD    PASTURES 

toward  you  in  their  diaphanous  drap- 
ery, but  it  is  the  berry  bushes  shoulder- 
ing up  to  greet  you  in  hearty  bourgeois 
welcome  that  make  you  feel  at  home. 

I  listened  to  the  thrush,  but  soon  I 
found  that  I  had  only  one  ear  to  do  it 
with,  for  on  the  other  side  of  me  a  bird 
was  rapidly  approaching  with  greater 
and  equally  persistent  clamor.  It  was 
a  whip-poor-will,  seemingly  roused  to 
rivalry  by  the  challenge  of  the  thrush. 
So  far  as  I  know  the  thrush  paid  no 
attention  to  him  but  simply  kept  up  his 
song  in  the  birch  near  by,  but  the  whip- 
poor-will  came  up  little  by  little  till  he 
seemed  almost  over  my  head,  and  I 
could  hear  plainly  the  hoarse  intake  of 
breath  between  each  call.  Very  brief 
gasps  these  intakes  were,  for  the  whip- 
poor-wills  fairly  tumbled  over  one  an- 
other without  cessation. 
30 


STALKING  THE  WILD   GRAPE 

Now  the  bird  went  away  for  a  dis- 
tance, again  he  came  back,  but  always 
he  kept  up  his  call,  while  the  thrush 
never  wavered  from  his  perch  in  the 
birch.  A  dozen  times  I  waked  in  the 
night  to  find  them  still  at  it,  and  when 
the  gray  of  dawn  finally  silenced  the 
whip-poor-will,  the  thrush  let  out  like 
a  tenor  that  has  just  got  his  second 
wind.  He  sang  up  the  dawn  and  the 
grand  matutinal  bird  chorus,  and  the 
last  I  heard  of  him  he  was  still  sitting 
on  his  perch  greeting  the  gold  of  the 
morning  sun  with  melodious  uproar. 

A  blind  man  who  knows  the  pasture 
should  know  what  part  of  it  he  is  in 
and  the  pasture  people  that  are  about 
him  of  a  June  morning  simply  by  the 
use  of  his  other  senses.  The  birds  he 
would  know  by  sound,  the  shrubs  and 
trees  by  smell.  Each  has  its  distinctive 


WILD    PASTURES 

set  of  odors  differing  with  differing  cir- 
cumstances, but  never  varying  under 
the  same  conditions.  The  barberry 
fruit  when  fully  ripe,  especially  if  the 
frost  has  mellowed  it,  has  a  faint, 
pleasant,  vinous  smell  which,  with  the 
crimson  beauty  of  the  clustered  berries, 
might  well  tempt  our  grandmothers  to 
make  barberry  sauce,  however  much  the 
men  folk  might  declare  that  it  was  but 
shoe-pegs  and  molasses. 

The  blossoms  are  equally  beautiful  in 
their  pendant  yellow  racemes  which 
seem  to  flood  the  bush  with  golden 
light,  but  the  odor  of  the  blossoms, 
though  the  first  sniff  is  sweet,  has  an 
after  touch  which  is  not  pleasant. 
Crush  the  leaves  as  you  pass  and  you 
shall  get  a  smell  as  of  cheap  vinegar 
with  something  of  the  back  kick  of  a 
table  d'hote  claret.  Crush  the  leaves  of 
32 


STALKING   THE  WILD   GRAPE 

the  swamp  azalea  and  get  a  strawberry- 
musk  flavor  that  is  faint  but  delightful. 

Sniff  as  you  shoulder  your  way 
through  the  high  blueberry  bushes  and 
you  may  note  that  the  crushed  leaves 
have  a  certain  vinous  odor  like  one  of 
the  flavors  of  a  good  salad.  The  blos- 
soms of  the  high-bush  blackberry,  whose 
thorns  tear  your  hands,  have  a  faint  and 
endearing  smell  as  of  June  roses  that 
are  so  far  away  that  you  get  just  a 
whiff  of  them  in  a  dream.  The  azalea 
that  a  month  later  will  make  the  moist 
air  swoon  with  sticky  sweetness  now 
gives  out  from  its  leaves  something  that 
reminds  you  of  wild  strawberries  that 
you  tasted  years  ago.  It  is  as  delicate 
and  as  reminiscent  as  that. 

Under  your  foot  the  sweet-fern 
breathes  a  resin  that  is  "  like  pious  in- 
cense from  a  censer  old,"  the  bayberry 
33 


WILD    PASTURES 

sniffs  of  the  wax  of  altar  candles 
lighted  at  high  mass  in  fairy  land, 
and  over  by  the  brook  the  sweet-gale 
gives  a  finer  fragrance  even  than  these. 
There  are  but  three  members  of  this 
family,  —  the  Myrica  or  Sweet-Gale  fam- 
ily, —  yet  it  is  one  that  the  pasture 
could  least  afford  to  miss.  The  fra- 
grance of  their  spirits  descends  like  a 
benediction  on  all  about  them,  and  I 
have  a  fancy  that  it  is  steadily  influenc- 
ing the  lives  of  the  other  pasture  folk. 
I  know  that  the  low-bush  black  huckle- 
berry, the  kind  of  the  sweet,  glossy 
black  fruit  that  crisps  under  your  teeth 
because  of  the  seeds  in  it,  grows  right 
amongst  sweet-fern  whenever  it  can. 
Now  if  you  crush  the  leaves  of  the  low- 
bush  black  huckleberry  you  shall  get 
from  them  a  faint  ghost  of  resinous 
aroma  which  is  very  like  that  of  the 
34 


STALKING   THE  WILD   GRAPE 

sweet-fern.  .  Thus  do  sweet  lives  pass 
their  fragrance  on  to  those  about  them. 

Many  of  these  familiar  odors  had 
come  to  me  during  the  night  as  I  half 
slept  and  half  listened  to  the  vocal  duel 
between  the  thrush  and  the  whip-poor- 
will,  but  as  I  sprang  to  my  feet  at  sun- 
rise from  my  dent  in  the  pasture  moss 
I  got  a  whiff  of  another  which  seemed 
more  subtly  elusive,  more  faintly  fine 
than  these,  perhaps  because,  though  I 
seemed  to  recognize  it,  I  could  not 
name  it. 

Many  things  I  could  name  as  I  have 
named  them  here,  but  this  escaped  me. 
It  had  in  it  some  of  that  real  fragrance, 
a  joy  without  alloy,  which  you  get  in 
late  July  or  August  from  the  clethra, 
the  white  alder  which  lines  the  brook 
and  the  pond  shore  with  its  beautiful 
clusters  of  odoriferous  white  spikes. 
35 


WILD    PASTURES 

But  by  no  stretch  of  the  imagination 
could  I  bring  the  white  alder  to  bloom 
in  early  June.  Moreover,  it  had  only  a 
suggestion  of  that  in  its  purity  of  fra- 
grance. There  was  more  to  this.  There 
was  a  spicy,  teasing  titillation  that 
made  me  think  of  bubbles  in  a  tall 
glass,  and  it  is  a  wonder  that  that 
thought  did  not  name  it  for  me,  but  it 
did  n't. 

The  sun  was  tipping  the  dew-wet 
bush  tops  with  opal  scintillations  that 
soak  you  to  the  skin  as  you  shoulder 
through  them,  but  that  did  not  matter; 
I  was  dressed  for  it,  and  so  on  I  went, 
taking  continual  shower-baths  cheerfully, 
but  always  with  that  teasing,  alluring 
scent  in  my  nostrils.  Now  and  then  I 
lost  it;  often  it  was  confused  and  over- 
ridden by  other  stronger  odors.  Once 
I  forgot  it. 

36 


STALKING   THE  WILD   GRAPE 

That  was  when  I  sprang  over  a 
stone  wall  and  landed  fairly  in  the  mid- 
dle of  a  covey  of  partridges  made  up  of 
a  mother  bird  and  what  seemed  a  small 
whirlwind  of  young  ones  no  bigger 
than  my  thumb.  My  plunge  startled 
the  mother  so  that  she  thundered  away 
through  the  bushes,  a  thing  that  a 
mother  partridge,  surprised  with  her 
young,  will  rarely  do.  At  the  same 
moment  the  young  scurried  into  the 
air.  It  was  like  a  gust  among  a  dozen 
brown  leaves,  whirling  them  breast 
high  for  a  moment  and  then  letting 
them  settle  to  earth  again.  You  go  to 
pick  them  up  and  they  surely  are  brown 
leaves!  It  is  as  if  some  woodland 
Merlin  had  waved  his  wand.  They 
were  young  partridges,  they  are  brown 
leaves.  It  is  as  quick  as  that. 

Yet  this  was  my  lucky  morning,  for 
37 


WILD    PASTURES 

one  of  these  little  birds  •  failed  to  de- 
materialize,  and  I  noted  him  wriggling 
down  under  a  clump  of  woodland  grass 
and  picked  him  up.  He  made  pretense 
of  keeping  still  for  a  moment,  then 
wriggled  in  fright  in  my  hand,  a 
pathetically  silent,  frightened,  bright- 
eyed  little  chick,  mostly  down.  How 
his  few  feathers  helped  him  to  make  as 
much  of  a  flight  as  he  had  is  beyond 
my  conception.  He  must  have  mental- 
scienced  himself  up  into  the  air  and  down 
again. 

Holding  him  gently,  I  pursed  my  lips 
and  drew  the  air  sharply  in  between  lips 
and  teeth.  The  result  was  a  peculiar 
squeaking  chirp  which  I  have  often 
used  on  similar  occasions  with  many 
different  birds  and  almost  always  with 
success.  Then  there  came  a  sudden 
materialization.  Out  of  the  atmosphere, 
38 


The  mother  bird,  dancing  and  mincing  along 


STALKING   THE   WILD   GRAPE 

apparently,  appeared  the  mother  bird, 
dancing  and  mincing  along  toward  me 
till  she  was  very  near,  her  head  up,  her 
eyes  blazing  with  excitement,  her  wings 
half  spread  and  her  feathers  fluttering. 

It  was  a  sort  of  pyrrhic  dance  by  a 
creature  as  different  from  the  usual 
partridge  as  may  be  conceived.  It 
lasted  but  a  moment;  at  a  sudden,  in- 
describable note  from  the  mother  bird 
the  fledgling  gave  an  answering  jump 
and  slipped  from  my  relaxed  hold,  flut- 
tered and  dematerialized  before  my  eyes 
just  as  the  mother  bird  .went  into  noth- 
ingness in  the  same  way.  Truly,  there 
are  bogies  in  the  wood,  for  that  morn- 
ing I  saw  them  at  their  work.  It  was 
the  illusion  and  evasion  of  old  Merlin; 
no  less. 

Going  on  down  the  pasture,  I  picked 
up  the  musky  scent  of  the  swamp  I  was 
39 


WILD    PASTURES 

approaching,  instead  of  the  thing  I 
sought.  The  scent  of  the  swamp  is 
cool  with  humid  humus,  musky  with  the 
breath  of  the  skunk-cabbage,  woodsy 
with  that  quaint  exhalation  which  you 
get  from  the  ferns,  our  oldest  form  of 
plant  life,  still  retaining  and  lending  to 
you  as  you  pass  the  odor  of  the  very 
forest  primeval.  These  are  the  base,  and 
they  carry  the  lighter  and  daintier  odors 
as  ambergris,  a  vile  and  dreadful  but 
very  strong  smell,  carries  the  dainty 
scents  of  the  perfumer,  and  just  as  they 
in  turn  give  you  no  hint  of  the  amber- 
gris which  is  their  base,  so  the  odor  of 
the  swamp  gives  you  little  hint  of  these 
three  but  is  a  delight  of  its  own. 

Beyond  the  little  corner  which  I  must 

cross   in   the   straight   line   I   had   taken 

was    a    small    hillock    of    open    pasture, 

fringed   on   the   farther   side   with   alder 

40 


STALKING   THE  WILD   GRAPE 

and  button  bush  which  stand  ankle  deep 
in  the  water  of  the  pond.  Here  on  the 
little  knoll  daisies  sent  out  that  faint, 
hay-like  smell  which  is  common  to  most 
of  the  composite.  The  squaw  weed  in 
the  meadowy  edge  between  the  swamp 
and  the  knoll  had  given  me  the  same 
fragrance.  But  standing  on  the  top  of 
the  knoll  while  the  soft  morning  wind 
swept  the  daisy  fragrance  by  me  knee 
high,  I  caught,  head  high,  the  elusive, 
alluring  odor  that  I  was  seeking.  It  led 
me  down  to  the  pond  side  and  called  me, 
dared  me,  to  come  on.  Why  not?  I 
was  dressed  for  it,  and  I  was  wet  to  the 
skin  with  the  drench  of  the  morning 
dew  already. 

The    cove    was   but    a   hundred   yards 

across,  and  I  stood  on  the  bank  wishing 

to    note    carefully   the    direction    I    must 

take.      The    lazy    morning   wind    drifted 

41 


WILD    PASTURES 

across,  just  kissing  the  water  here  and 
there,  leaving  the  surface  for  the  most 
part  smooth.  I  wet  my  finger  and  held 
it  up,  dropping  it  cool  side  down  till  it 
was  level.  It  pointed  exactly  toward 
the  opposite  point  at  the  other  side  of 
the  cove  and  between  it  and  the  next 
one.  There  a  low,  sloping,  broad  flat 
rock  hung  with  a  canopy  of  green 
leaves  was  the  dock  at  which  I  might 
land  conveniently,  and  I  splashed  reso- 
lutely into  the  water,  scaring  almost  to 
death  with  my  plunge  a  big  green  frog 
that  was  sunning  himself  on  a  little 
foot-square  cranberry  bog  island.  He 
gave  a  shrill  little  yelp  of  terror  and 
dived  before  I  could. 

Singular  thing  that  little  half  squeak, 

half  screech,  of  alarm.     I  have  heard  a 

girl    make    an    almost    identical    sound 

when  coming  suddenly  on  a  particularly 

42 


STALKING   THE  WILD   GRAPE 

fuzzy  and  well-developed  caterpillar. 
Rabbit,  dog,  and  bird  have  it  as  well; 
indeed,  it  seems  to  be  the  one  word 
which  is  common  to  all  races  and  to  all 
articulate  creatures.  Like  the  scent  of 
brakes  it  began  with  the  beginning  of 
things  and  has  survived  all  the  changes 
of  creation. 

The  muskrat  ferry  is  a  pleasant  one. 
Little  dancing  sprites  of  mist,  the  height 
of  your  head  above  water,  tiptoe  off 
the  surface  and  slip  away  as  you  swim 
toward  them.  You  may  see  these  only 
of  a  morning  when  you  take  the  musk- 
rat  ferry.  They  are  invisible  from  the 
shore  or  from  the  height  of  a  canoe 
seat. 

It  is  probable  that  just  as  some  of 
the  pasture  people  make  sounds  too 
shrill  or  too  soft  for  our  human  ears  to 
hear  them,  so  there  are  other  things 

43 


WILD    PASTURES 

about  the  pasture  less  visible  even  than 
the  little  mist  folk  that  we  might  see 
were  our  sight  fine  enough  or  soft 
enough. 

Two-thirds  of  the  way  across  a  little 
puff  of  wind  sparkled  its  way  out  from 
the  shore  to  meet  me.  It  brought  with 
it,  full  and  rich,  the  fragrance  which 
had  led  me  so  long;  and  as  I  looked 
at  the  broad  leaves  overhanging  my 
rock  port,  their  under  sides  and  the 
young  shoots  covered  with  a  soft, 
cottony  down,  I  laughed  to  think  that 
I  should  not  have  known  what  it  was 
I  sought.  For  it  was  there  in  plain 
sight;  indeed  the  rock  was  canopied 
with  it. 

A  long  time  I  sat  on  that  rock  on  the 
farther  side  of  the  cove,  the  June  sun 
warming  me,  the  fragrance  of  the  fox- 
grape  blooms  over  my  head  alluring, 
44 


STALKING  THE  WILD   GRAPE 

soothing,  wrapping  my  senses  in  a 
dreamy  delight. 

He  who  would  attempt  to  classify  and 
define  the  perfume  that  drifts  through 
the  pasture  from  the  bloom  of  the  fox- 
grape  may.  I  only  know  that  it  makes 
me  dream  of  pipes  of  Pan  playing  in 
the  morning  of  the  world,  while  all  the 
wonder  creatures  of  the  old  Greek 
myths  dance  in  rhythm  and  sing  in  soft 
undertones,  and  the  riot  of  young  life 
bubbles  within  them. 

The  pasture,  indeed,  could  ill  afford  to 
lose  the  pious  incense  from  the  sweet- 
fern's  censer,  the  fragrance  of  the  altar 
candles  of  the  bayberry,  and  the  subtle 
essence  of  the  sweet-gale.  These  are 
the  holy  incense  of  the  church  of  out-of- 
doors,  and  it  is  well  that  we  should  al- 
ways find  them  when  we  come  to  wor- 
ship; yet  he  who  would  dare  all  to  steal 
45 


WILD    PASTURES 

for  one  elusive  moment  the  fragrance  of 
the  deep  heart  of  delight,  let  him  come 
to  the  pasture  on  just  that  rare,  brief 
period  of  all  the  year  when  the  fox 
grape  sends  forth  its  perfume. 


THE    FROG    RENDEZVOUS 


THE    FROG   RENDEZVOUS 

1  HE  pasture  meets  the  pond  all  along 
for  a  mile  or  so.  It  lays  its  lip  to  it 
and  drinks  only  here  and  there.  It 
drinks  deepest  of  all  in  a  cove.  You 
will  hardly  know  where  pasture  leaves 
off  and  cove  begins,  the  two  mingle  so 
gently.  The  pasture  creatures  here  slip 
down  into  the  cove,  and  those  of  the 
pond  make  their  way  well  up  into 
the  pasture.  You  yourself,  approach- 
ing the  cove  from  the  pasture  side  on 
foot,  will  be  splashing  ankle  deep  in  it 
before  you  know  you  are  coming  to  it 
at  all,  so  well  do  the  pasture  bushes, 
standing  to  their  knees  in  the  cool 
water,  screen  it  from  you. 

Coming  from  the  pond  side  you  might 
49 


WILD    PASTURES 

think  you  saw  the  margin  in  this  same 
screen  of  bushes,  but  there  are  roods  of 
cove  beyond  and  behind  them.  The 
shrubs  of  the  pasture  love  to  come  down 
and  dabble  their  feet  in  the  warm  pond 
water  and  sun  themselves  in  the  shel- 
tered, fragrant  air. 

The  afternoon  sun  has  more  resili- 
ence here  than  elsewhere.  It  bounds 
with  fervent  flashes  of  elasticity  from 
the  glossy  leaves  of  the  bushes  that 
have  waded  out  farthest  and  made 
islands  of  themselves.  The  high-bush 
blueberries  are  the  most  daring  of  all, 
and  stand  in  the  largest  clumps 
farthest  out.  These,  late  in  May  with 
an  offshore  wind,  shower  the  whole 
surface  of  the  water  with  their  fallen 
corollas.  More  than  once  have  I  seen 
the  cove  white  with  them  on  Memorial 
Day,  as  if  the  bushes,  standing  with 
50 


THE    FROG    RENDEZVOUS 

bowed  heads,  strewed  the  waves  with 
memorial  flowers  for  the  pasture  people 
who  have  died  at  sea. 

Earlier  in  the  year  the  elms  have 
made  the  whole  surface  of  the  cove 
brown  with  their  round,  wing-mar- 
gined seeds,  and  after  the  memorial 
flowers  of  the  blueberry  bushes  are 
gone  the  maples  will  send  out  millions 
of  two-sailed  seed  boats,  reddening  the 
whole  surface  with  their  argosies  as 
they  go  out^  to  sea,  wing  and  wing. 
Now  all  these  things  have  passed  and 
the  surface  of  the  water  is  clean  again 
to  dimple  with  the  under-water  swirl  of 
a  minnow-hunting  pickerel  or  lap  lazily 
against  your  canoe  with  the  dying  un- 
dulations of  the  waves  from  outside. 

After  the  bold  blueberry  bushes,  less 
daring  but  still  eager  pasture  people 
have  waded  in  and  formed  lesser 


WILD    PASTURES 

island  clumps  of  their  own.  These  were 
led  by  the  sweet-gale,  holding  her  dark- 
green  silken  skirt  daintily  up,  so  fra- 
grant-souled  that  she  fears  no  evil, 
trailed  by  the  saucy  wild  rose,  cheerful 
spiraea,  gloomy  cassandra,  and  chubby 
baby  alders.  If  you  watch  these  you 
will  note  that  they  shiver  in  the  lazy 
breeze  as  if  they  feared  the  pass  to 
which  their  temerity  may  have  brought 
them.  Yet  there  they  stand,  and  the 
miniature  tides  swirl  about  their  pink 
toes  and  die  in  the  pools  behind  them,  so 
closely  grow  the  sedges  and  little  marsh 
plants  that  fill  them  until  the  fishes  from 
the  cove  nose  about  their  stalks  in  vain 
attempt  to  enter. 

Just    outside    the    bush    fringe,    where 

the  maples  are  mirrore'd  in  undulations, 

whirl    and    skip,    each    according   to    his 

kind,    the    surface    insects    of    the    cove. 

52 


THE    FROG    RENDEZVOUS 

Of  these  I  hail  with  greatest  joy,  as  any 
boy  should,  the  "  lucky  bug."  You 
know  the  one  I  mean.  He  is  a  third  of 
an  inch  long,  almost  as  broad,  oval,  a 
sort  of  whaleback  monitor  without  any 
turret.  He  is  hard  shelled  and  a  Bap- 
tist, judged  from  the  pertinacity  with 
which  he  sticks  to  deep  water,  but  a 
Baptist  gone  sadly  wrong,  for  he 
waltzes  continually  with  his  fellows. 
Round  and  round  they  go  in  a  mazy 
whirl  that  would  make  you  dizzy  if  at 
the  last  gasp  they  did  not  reverse. 

All  boys  who  fish  know  that  these 
bugs  carry  stores  of  luck  within  their 
hard  shells,  and  for  one  even  to  ap- 
proach your  line  in  his  mad  waltz  is  a 
sign  of  coming  success,  and  should  he 
actually  touch  the  line  and  cling,  it  pre- 
sages a  big  fish.  But  if  you  would  pro- 
pitiate the  gods  in  most  definite  fashion 
53 


WILD    PASTURES 

before  you  cast  line  you  should  catch 
several  lucky  bugs,  the  more  the  better, 
bury  them  on  the  bank  with  their  heads 
to  the  shore,  and  recite  over  them  an 
incantation  as  follows: 

"Bug,  bug,  bug, 
I  've  spit  on  the  worms  I  dug; 
Bug,  bug,  give  me  my  wish, 
A  great  big  string  of  great  big  fish." 

Properly  managed  this  was  never  known 
to  fail;  if  it  does  it  is  because  you  have 
buried  one  or  more  of  your  bugs  bot- 
tom up. 

It  is  not  so  easy  to  catch  a  lucky  bug, 
however.  He  is  a  very  modern  type 
of  monitor,  for  his  engine  power  is  of 
the  highest,  steam  is  always  at  the  top 
notch,  and  he  can  dart  away  in  a 
straight  line  with  all  the  concentrated 
fury  of  a  torpedo  boat.  Moreover,  he  is 
54 


THE    FROG    RENDEZVOUS 

convertible,  and  I  have  seen  him  when 
completely  surrounded  by  enemies  be- 
come a  submarine  and  dive  straight  for 
the  bottom  and  stay  there.  He  may 
have  an  oxygen  tank;  anyway,  he 
does  n't  come  up  until  he  gets  ready, 
when  he  appears  fresh  and  hearty  and 
ready  for  another  waltz. 

A  fellow  surface  sailor  of  his,  or 
rather  skipper,  is  a  different  type  of 
bug.  This  is  the  water-strider,  a  veri- 
table Cassius  of  the  cove,  with  the  lean 
and  hungry  look  of  an  overgrown,  un- 
derfed mosquito.  There  is  no  merry 
waltz  with  his  fellows  about  this 
piratical-looking  chap.  He  spreads  his 
four  long  legs  like  a  Maltese  cross,  and 
the  tips  of  them  are  all  that  touch  the 
water.  These  dent  it  into  minute  dim- 
ples, but  do  not  penetrate,  and  his  bug- 
ship  skips  energetically  about  on  the 
55 


WILD    PASTURES 

four  dents,  hopping  at  times  like  a 
veritable  flea.  Sometimes  he  jumps  a 
half-inch  high  and  skitters  along  the 
surface  as  a  boy  skips  a  stone;  again  he 
poises,  lowers  his  body  till  it  all  but 
rests  on  the  water,  then  raises  it  till  he 
is  high  on  four  stilts,  and  all  the  time 
not  even  his  toes  are  wet. 

Entering  the  cove  in  mid-afternoon 
you  might  think  the  swooning  heat  had 
left  it  no  life  awake  other  than  the 
water  insects  and  the  dragon-flies  that 
race  them  in  airship  fashion  above. 
Yet  you  have  but  to  ground  your  canoe 
on  a  sedgy  shallow,  sit  motionless,  and 
wait.  Nor  have  you  to  wait  long. 
There  is  a  breathless  pause  as  if  all 
things  waited  to  see  what  this  leviathan 
of  the  outer  deep  meant  to  do  next; 
then  a  voice  at  your  very  elbow  says 
reassuringly,  "  Tu-g-g-g !  "  That  is  as 
56 


THE    FROG    RENDEZVOUS 

near  as  you  can  come  to  it  with  type. 
There  are  no  characters  that  will  ex- 
press its  guttural  vehemence  which 
strikes  you  like  a  blow  on  the  chest,  or 
its  sympathetic  resonance.  Take  your 
violin,  drop  the  G  string  to  a  tension  so 
low  that  it  will  hardly  vibrate  musically, 
then  twang  it.  That  suggests  the  tone. 
But  you  know  it  well  enough  without 
description. 

Immediately  there  comes  an  answer- 
ing chorus  of  "  tu-g-gs,"  here,  there,  in 
a  score  of  places  all  along  the  shore  line 
and  among  the  island  clumps  of  bushes, 
prelude  of  frog  talk  galore  for  a 
moment  or  two,  followed  by  brief 
silence.  Then,  taking  advantage  of  the 
oratorical  pause,  an  old-timer  sets  up  a 
tremendously  hoarse  and  vibrant  bel- 
low. "  A-hr-r-h-h-u-m-mm !  "  he  says, 
"  A-hr-r-h-h-u-m-mm !  "  with  the  accent 
57 


WILD    PASTURES 

on  the  rum.  You  can  hear  him  half  a 
mile,  and  immediately  there  is  a 
"  chug-squeak-splash "  from  a  little 
fellow,  as  if,  unable  to  furnish  the 
beverage  at  short  notice,  he  became 
affrighted  and  without  delay  decided 
that  a  sequestered  nook  on  bottom  be- 
tween two  stones  was  for  him.  Then 
the  cove  goes  to  sleep  again;  you  can 
almost  hear  the  silence  snore. 

Little  by  Iktle,  if  you  look  about  you 
shall  see  them,  some  right  within  reach 
of  your  paddle.  I  never  know  whether 
they  slip  under  when  the  canoe  ap- 
proaches and  bob  up  again  noiselessly 
after  all  is  still,  or  whether  they  are 
there  all  the  time,  only  so  well  concealed 
by  nature  that  the  eye  does  not  note 
them  at  first;  but  I  do  know  that  you 
never  see  them  until  you  have  waited  a 
bit.  Their  brown  backs  are  just  under 
58 


THE    FROG    RENDEZVOUS 

water,  their  green-brown  heads  just 
enough  above  the  surface  so  that  the 
nostrils  will  get  air;  and  there  they 
wait,  motionless,  for  hours  and  hours, 
for  time  and  tide  to  serve  luncheon. 
Even  with  only  the  tops  of  their  heads 
visible  they  make  you  laugh,  for  their 
pop  eyes  are  popped  so  high  above  the 
tops  of  their  flat  heads  that  they  make 
you  think  of  automobile  bug  lights  set 
well  up  above  the  motor  hood. 

I  note  a  shipwrecked  June  beetle 
clinging  half  drowned  to  a  spear  of 
grass  and  I  toss  him  over  within  six 
inches  of  a  frog.  There  is  a  splash,  a 
gulp,  and  the  beetle  with  his  franti- 
cally clawing,  thorny-toed  legs  is  passed 
on  to  kingdom  come  without  a  crunch. 
Once  or  twice  after  that  this  frog 
stirred  as  if  he  had  an  uneasy  con- 
science, but  he  seemed  to  suffer  no  in- 
59 


WILD    PASTURES 

ternal  pangs,  indeed  he  winked  the  cir- 
cular yellow  lining  of  his  eye  at  me 
these  times  as  if  he  enjoyed  it.  It  had 
all  the  effects  of  smacking  the  lips. 

The  afternoon  dreams  down  from  its 
pinnacle  of  hazy  heat  to  the  soft  level 
of  eventide.  Under  the  pines  of  the 
west  side  of  the  cove  the  level  sun  slips 
in  and  seems  to  caress  the  green  trunks, 
and  the  tops  above  sing  a  little  sighing 
song  of  contentment.  Strange  you  have 
not  heard  this  before,  for  the  wind  has 
been  there  all  the  afternoon.  But  it  is 
toward  nightfall  that  the  cove  wakes 
up  and  you  hear  many  lisping  elfin 
sounds  that  you  have  never  noticed 
during  the  mid-afternoon  heat.  You 
hear  the  sedges  talking  in  the  undula- 
tions now.  You  did  not  hear  them  be- 
fore, yet  the  undulations  have  been  glid- 
ing dreamily  among  the  sedges  all  day. 
60 


THE    FROG    RENDEZVOUS 

The  pasture  birds  are  waking  up  their 
preludes  of  evensong,  and  the  sun  across 
the  cove  to  the  west  is  glorifying  all  the 
quivering  canopy  of  green  leaves  through 
which  it  shines  with  a  luminous,  diaph- 
anous quality  which  makes  magic  all 
along  that  side  of  the  cove. 

You  are  on  the  borderland  between 
the  clear  definition  of  reality  and  the 
mystic  haze  of  nightfall.  To  the  west, 
looking  away  from  the  glow,  all  is 
gently  but  clearly  defined;  to  the  east, 
looking  into  the  golden  rose  of  the  sun- 
set through  the  shimmering  illusion  of 
leaves,  lies  the  pathway  to  the  land  that 
the  king's  son  saw  in  the  Arabian 
Night's  tale. 

The  nightly  entertainment,  the  even- 
ing minstrel  show,  is  about  to  begin  in 
the  cove,  an  entertainment  in  which  the 
frogs  are  the  minstrels,  an  all  star  per- 
61 


WILD    PASTURES 

formance,  for  every  one  of  them  is  ca- 
pable of  being  an  end  man  or  interlocutor 
or  soloist  as  the  case  may  require. 

Already  the  audience  is  beginning  to 
gather.  First  conies  a  gray  squirrel 
scratching  down  a  maple  trunk,  his 
strong  clawed  hind  feet  digging  into  the 
bark  and  holding  him  wherever  he  wishes 
them  to,  as  if  he  were  an  inverted  line- 
man. Suddenly  he  sights  the  canoe  and 
its  occupant  and  —  blows  up.  Nothing 
else  will  express  his  sudden  outpouring 
of  scolding  and  denunciation  of  this 
creature  that  has  usurped  a  front  seat. 
The  sounds  burst  out  of  him  like  the 
escaping  steam  from  a  great  mogul  en- 
gine waiting  on  a  siding  for  its  freight, 
and  he  quivers  from  head  to  foot,  like 
the  engine,  with  the  intensity  of  the 
ebullition.  Suddenly  there  is  a  "  quawk!  " 
directly  over  his  head,  a  single  cry  shot 
62 


THE    FROG    RENDEZVOUS 

out  from  the  catarrhal  throat  of  a  night 
heron  that  is  just  sailing  down.  The 
gray  squirrel  shoots  three  feet  into  the 
air,  lands  on  another  maple,  flashes  up 
a  birch  and  goes  crashing  through  the 
birch  tops  off  into  the  woods,  where 
you  faintly  hear  him  jawing  still.  The 
night  heron  whirls  with  a  great  flap- 
ping and  puts  to  sea  \vith  more  quawks 
of  alarm.  But  these  two  were  not  es- 
pecially wanted  at  the  concert.  The 
night  heron  particularly  is  an  unlovely 
bird  in  appearance,  voice,  and  manner. 
The  skippers  and  the  lucky  bugs  crowd 
in  together,  each  among  its  kind,  close 
to  the  reedy  margin,  to  be  as  near  the 
performers  as  possible,  and  behold,  there 
come  sailing  in  from  sea  tiny  argosies 
of  dainty  people,  the  loveliest  free  swim- 
mers of  the  pond.  Golden  heads  nod- 
ding in  gracious  recognition,  they  come, 

63 


WILD    PASTURES 

slender  bodied  and  graceful,  trailing  long 
robes  of  filmy  lace  beneath  them  in  the 
water. 

The  botanists,  who  shall  be  hung  some 
day  for  their  literalness,  have  named 
these  lovely  denizens  of  the  cove  bladder- 
worts,  or  Utricularia,  if  you  wish  the 
Latin  form,  because  they  float  on  their 
air-inflated  leaves  and  trail  their  roots 
beneath  them,  free  in  the  water,  scorn- 
ing the  contaminating  touch  of  earth. 
The  off-shore  wind  of  noon  had  sailed 
these  out  well  beyond  the  mouth  of  the 
cove,  now  the  evening  breeze  is  bring- 
ing them  in  again  for  the  concert. 

They  should  have  been  named  after 
some  dainty  lady  of  the  old  Greek  my- 
thology, some  fair  sailor  lass  who 
crossed  the  wake  of  Ulysses,  perchance, 
and  lingers  on  placid  seas  waiting  his 
return  to  this  day,  for  you  will  see  their 
64 


Out  from  among  the  birches  she  sails  gracefully,  a  veritable 
•  queen  of  the  fairies 


THE    FROG    RENDEZVOUS 

golden  heads  nodding  along  on  the  little 
waves  of  the  cove  all  summer. 

These  are  the  patricians  of  the  con- 
cert. There  is  a  great  tuning  of  in- 
struments going  on  already  and  a  try- 
ing out  of  voices,  yet  for  some  reason 
there  is  delay.  Then  comes  the  queen 
herself.  The  golden  shimmer  on  the 
eastern  shore  has  faded  and  dusk  dances 
up  from  the  undergrowth  on  the  west. 
It  is  time,  and  out  from  among  the 
birches  she  sails  gracefully,  a  veritable 
queen  of  the  fairies,  clad  in  ostrich 
plumes  and  softest  of  white  velvet,  with 
the  most  beautiful  trailing  and  undulat- 
ing opera  cloak  of  softest,  delicate  green, 
trimmed  with  brown  and  white.  You 
may  call  her  a  luna  moth  if  you  will. 
The  thing  which  somewhat  resembles 
her,  stuck  on  a  pin  in  your  collection, 
may  be  that,  but  this  graceful,  soaring 

65 


WILD    PASTURES 

creature,  pulsing  and  quivering  with  life, 
floating  through  perfumed  dusk,  is  the 
queen  of  the.  fairies  —  no  less. 

Her  arrival  is  a  signal  for  the  olio 
to  begin.  Then,  indeed,  you  learn  the 
astonishing  number  and  variety  of  the 
frog  performers  within  the  cove.  The 
basso  profundos  sing  "  Ah-r-h-u-m-m " 
with  amazing  gusto.  Surely  that  waiter 
frog  has  got  over  his  fright  and  brought 
it  in  quantity.  "  T-u-g-gs  "  resound  all 
about  like  the  rattle  of  a  drum  corps. 
There  are  altos  whose  voices  sound  like 
rasping  a  stick  cheerfully  on  a  picket 
fence,  others  whose  strain  hath  a  dying 
fall  of  internal  agony  outwardly  ex- 
pressed. A  lone  belated  hyla  pipes  his 
plaintive  soprano,  but  the  tenors  are  the 
strongest  of  all.  The  tree  toad  flutes  a 
fluttering,  liquid  tremolo,  and  the  toad, 
the  common  toad,  sits  on  the  grassy 
66 


THE    FROG    RENDEZVOUS 

margin  and  swells  his  throat  and  sings 
"  Wha-a-a-a- "  in  long-drawn,  dreamy 
cadence. 

You  may  imitate  this  sound  after  a 
fashion  if  you  wish.  Purse  your  lips  and 
say  the  French  "  Eu "  in  a  long  drawl 
once  or  twice,  then  the  next  time  you 
do  it  whistle  at  the  same  time.  You 
will  have  a  very  tolerable  imitation  of 
this  dreamy  note.  It  invites  to  slumber 
and  it  is  time  to  paddle  home,  for  the 
dusk  has  deepened  to  darkness  and  there 
is  little  more  for  you  to  see  in  the  cove. 


67 


A    BUTTERFLY    CHASE 


A  BUTTERFLY    CHASE 

IT  was  a  great  purple  butterfly  which 
led  me  over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  one  of 
the  "  white  admirals,"  curiously  enough 
so  called,  though  this  one  had  but  four 
minute  spots  of  white  on  him  near  the 
tips  of  his  wings.  Some  members  of 
his  genus  have  a  right  to  the  name  for 
they  have  broad  bands  of  white  across 
all  four  wings,  but  this  one,  the  Basil- 
archia  astyanax,  is  a  black  sheep. 

Nevertheless  he  is  a  beautiful  crea- 
ture, well  worth  following  under  any 
circumstances  to  note  the  ease  and  sure- 
ness  of  his  floating  flight  and  admire 
the  beauty  of  his  velvety  rufous-black, 
shoaling  into  lustrous  blue  in  the  rounded 
crenulations  of  the  after  wings.  This 


WILD    PASTURES 

one  I  thought  worth  following  for  an- 
other reason,  however,  for  he  seemed  to 
have  something  on  his  mind.  Not  that 
his  flight  was  direct.  A  bird  with  some- 
thing to  do  goes  to  his  work  in  a 
straight  line;  but  a  butterfly  must  dance 
along,  even  if  it  were  to  a  funeral  in 
the  family.  And  yet  with  all  this  my 
blue  and  rufous-black  white  admiral  car- 
ried in  his  dancing  progress  something 
which  told  me  he  'was  troubled  and  led 
me  to  follow  him  over  the  brow  of  the 
hill. 

The  hill  itself  is  worth  noting.  Here 
the  glaciers  which  some  thousands  of 
years  ago  planed  off  the  rougher  sur- 
face of  eastern  New  England  dropped 
their  chips  in  a  vast  terminal  moraine 
of  sand  and  gravel,  whose  northern  de- 
clivity is  so  steep  that  you  may  throw 
a  stone  from  its  rim  to  the  top  of  a 
72 


A    BUTTERFLY    CHASE 

pine  growing  on  the  level,  eighty  or 
ninety  feet  below.  I  know  many  termi- 
nal moraines  in  New  England;  but  I 
know  no  other  at  once  so  high  and  so 
abrupt  in  its  declivity.  A  few  rods  back 
from  its  summit  the  trolley  car  clangs 
incessantly,  and  the  speed-mad  automo- 
bilist  tears  hooting  through. 

Along  the  crest,  in  spite  of  this,  sleep 
peacefully  the  forefathers  of  the  hamlet. 
I  like  to  feel  that  they  neither  note  nor 
heed  the  uproar  of  the  highway ;  that  they 
now  and  then  cock  a  pleased  ear  to  the 
rumble  of  a  passing  hay-cart  or  the  jog 
of  a  farmer's  horse,  but  that  the  bed- 
lam of  modern  hurry  whangs  by  them 
unperceived.  Rather  they  turn  their 
faces  to  the  sough  of  the  summer  winds 
in  the  century-old  pines  which  shade  the 
steep  and  sleep  on,  happy  in  the  bene- 
diction that  descends  from  the  spreading 
73 


WILD    PASTURES 

branches.  Wonderful  pines,  these,  so 
shading  the  whole  declivity  that  not 
more  than  a  dapple  of  sunlight  has 
touched  the  ground  beneath  them  for  a 
century. 

Here  the  hepatica  finds  the  cool,  dry 
seclusion  that  it  loves  and  lifts  shy  blue 
eyes  to  you  while  yet  the  winter  ice 
nestles  beside  it  among  the  pine  roots. 
Here  while  the  July  sun  distills  pitchy 
aroma  from  the  great  trees  the  partridge 
berry  carpets  favored  spots  with  the  rich 
green  of  its  little  round  leaves,  —  leaves 
no  bigger  than  the  pink  nail  of  your 
sweetheart's  little  finger,  a  green  figured 
with  the  scarlet  of  last  year's  berries  and 
the  white  of  its  wee  starry  twin  flowers. 
Here,  too,  in  July  the  pyrola  lifts  its 
spike  of  bells  like  a  woodland  lily-of-the- 
valley  and  the  pipsissewa  shows  its  waxy 
flowers  to  the  questing  bee. 
74 


A    BUTTERFLY    CHASE 

A  butterfly,  especially  a  large  butter- 
fly, rarely  bothers  with  these  low-grow- 
ing herbs,  though  each  has  its  own 
delicious  fragrance  —  and  a  butterfly' s 
scent  is  keen.  So  my  black  white  ad- 
miral alternately  danced  and  soared  on 
down  through  the  richly  perfumed  areas 
of  the  wood  while  I  plunged  eagerly 
after,  glissading  the  needle-carpeted  slope, 
making  station  from  trunk  to  trunk  lest 
a  too  headlong  flight  plunge  me  to  ob- 
livion in  what  I  knew  was  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill. 

Without,  the  perfervid  July  sun  beat 
upon  the  landscape  till  the  dust  of  its 
concussion  rose  in  a  blue  haze  that 
loomed  the  near-by  hills  into  misty 
mountain  tops  and  glamoured  the  whole 
world  with  tropical  illusion.  To  our 
hard-cornered,  clear-cut  New  England  it 
is  the  midsummer  which  brings  the 
75 


WILD    PASTURES 

atmosphere  of  romance.  The  swoon 
of  Arabian  Nights  is  upon  the  land- 
scape, and  it  is  through  such  heat  and 
through  such  misty  evasion  that  the 
Caliph  of  Bagdad  was  accustomed  to 
set  forth  incognito  to  meet  strange 
adventures. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill,  almost  at  the 
borderland  which  separates  this  under- 
pine  world  from  another  far  different, 
the  resinous  air  is  shut  in  like  the  genie 
in  the  bottle.  You  feel  the  oppression 
of  its  restraint  and  wonder,  if  like  the 
fisherman  you  might  uncork  it,  if  it 
would  loom  aloft  in  a  dense  cloud  that 
would  speak  to  you  in  a  mighty  voice. 
Here  my  butterfly  paused  for  the  first 
time  and  lighted  upon  the  trunk  of  a 
pine,  head  high. 

Quietly  I  drew  near.  His  wings  were 
rising  and  falling  in  rhythmic  uncon- 


A    BUTTERFLY    CHASE 

scious  motion  that  was  tremulous  with 
what  seemed  eagerness.  One  of  them, 
I  noted,  had  a  little  triangular  bit  snipped 
out  of  it  with  a  clean  cut.  Some  insect- 
eating  bird  had  snapped  at  him  not  long 
before,  and  he  had  come  within  a  half 
inch  of  death.  Yet  this  did  not  trouble 
him;  very  likely  he  never  knew  it.  It 
was  something  else  which  absorbed  him 
so  that  he  took  .no  notice  of  my  close 
approach.  And  now  I  could  see  that  his 
proboscis  was  uncoiled  and  apparently 
he  was  eating  rapidly.  Now  the  pro- 
boscis of  any  butterfly  is  simply  a 
double-barrelled  tube  through  which  he 
sucks  honey  or  other  moist  nutriment. 
That  a  Basilarchia  astyanax,  or  any 
other  butterfly  for  that  matter,  should 
be  able  to  draw  nourishment  from  the 
dry,  rough  bark  of  a  pine-tree  was  suf- 
ficient cause  for  astonishment,  and  I 
77 


WILD    PASTURES 

drew  eagerly  nearer  to  see  what  he 
was  getting. 

It  was  a  humid  day  and  I  was  thirsty 
myself.  What  woodland  brew  could  be 
on  tap  here?  In  Ireland  it  used  to  be 
true  that  the  Leprachauns,  the  little  men 
of  the  hedge,  could  make  good  beer  of 
heath,  and  if  you  could  only  catch  and 
hold  one  he  would  tell  you  how.  Here 
might  be  a  similar  chance.  My  nose  was 
within  six  inches  of  the  white  admiral's 
now  and  my  eyes  were  bulging  out  with 
surprise  as  much  as  his  do  naturally, 
for  behold  he  had  what  butterfly  never 
had  before,  —  a  little  red  tongue  on  the 
tip  of  his  proboscis,  and  with  it  he  was 
nervously  licking  the  bark  in  its  rough- 
est places  as  hard  as  he  could. 

I  might  have  seen  more  had  not  my 
foot  slipped  on  the  glossy  pine  needles, 
and  while  I  clutched  the  trunk  of  the 
78 


A    BUTTERFLY    CHASE 

pine  to  save  myself  the  butterfly  danced 
away,  thinking,  I  dare  say,  that  I  was 
an  abnormally  developed  wood  peewee 
and  had  just  missed  getting  him  for 
luncheon.  Evidently  the  south  wind 
had  blown  up  from  the  gulf  more  than 
an  Arabian  Night's  atmosphere;  it  had 
sent  along  portions  of  the  fauna  as 
well.  A  butterfly  with  a  tongue  on  the 
end  of  his  proboscis  belongs  in  the  land 
where  rocs  pick  up  elephants  in  their 
talons  and  soar  away  with  them! 

Eagerly  I  sought  to  follow  my  Basil- 
arc hia  astyanax  and  learn  more,  but  it 
was  not  so  easy.  To  follow  his  flight 
without  care  as  to  the  setting  of  my 
feet  might  well  be  to  reach  a  country 
undiscovered  indeed,  for  from  the  very 
bottom  of  the  northern  declivity  of  the 
terminal  moraine  well  the  springs  of 
the  fountain  head,  and  out  across  these 
79 


WILD    PASTURES 

he  lightly  floated,  toward  the  sphagnum- 
bottom  pasture  swamp  beyond. 

I  suppose  it  is  well  settled,  geologi- 
cally, that  a  river  of  pure  water  flows 
from  some  distant  northern  point,  Lab- 
rador perhaps,  under  the  eastern  por- 
tion of  Massachusetts.  .Driven  wells 
find  this  water  almost  everywhere.  In 
places  it  rises  to  the  surface  in  clear 
ponds  which  have  no  apparent  inlet, 
and  from  which  little  water  flows,  but 
which  are  clear  and  sparkling  at  a 
good  level  the  year  round.  Houghton's 
Pond,  in  the  Blue  Hill  Reservation,  is 
one  of  these  nearest  Boston.  Walden 
Pond  is  another,  and  there  are  plenty 
more. 

In   other   places    still    the   water   boils 

out    of    springs    through    quicksands    of 

unknown      depths,      flowing      in      clear 

streams    through     surrounding    swamps 

80 


A    BUTTERFLY    CHASE 

where  trees  have  made  firm  ground  al- 
ternating with  bits  of  quaking  bog  and 
open  pools,  where  a  misstep  will  drop 
you  over  your  head  in  a  clinging  mud 
that  never  gives  up  what  it  once  gets. 

Such  is  the  fountain  head,  and  you 
would  know  you  were  coming  to  it  of  a 
hot  day  even  were  your  eyes  shut,  for 
the  ice-cold  water  makes  its  own  at- 
mosphere. We  read  of  bodies  of  ice 
that  have  lasted  since  the  glacial  age 
buried  under  these  terminal  moraines 
whence  well  such  cooling  springs.;  I  do 
not  know  about  the  ice,  but  I  can  testify 
to  the  cold,  sparkling  water  and  the 
grateful  atmosphere  which  it  dissem- 
inates on  these  our  Arabian  days.  Yet 
you  must  mark  well  your  going.  Just 
under  the  slope  the  water  boils  up 
through  fine  sand  that  dances  in  the  up 
current.  A  few  feet  farther  down  it 
81 


WILD    PASTURES 

wells  more  silently,  and  the  decayed 
vegetation  of  centuries  has  made  a  mud 
bank  over  the  quicksand.  You  may 
sink  to  the  knee  here  and  find  bottom. 
A  few  steps  farther  on  you  may  drive  a 
twenty-foot  pole  down  through  mud 
and  sand  and  find  nothing  to  obstruct  it. 
Yet  Nature  always  provides  the 
remedy.  Mosses  and  swamp  grass 
have  grown  on  the  surface  of  this 
liquid  mud  and  alders  and  swamp 
maple  have  rooted  in  these  and  encour- 
aged wild  rose  and  elder  and  many 
another  shrub,  till  their  intertwined 
roots  have  formed  a  surface  which  is 
in  part  safe  to  the  foot.  And  here  is  a 
world  of  itself  in  this  hidden  pasture 
corner,  for  here  linger  the  trout  and 
the  watercress,  and  many  another  shy 
woodland  thing,  driven  to  bay  by  the  en- 
croachments of  surrounding  civilization. 
82 


A    BUTTERFLY    CHASE 

In  early  July  you  will  find  the  water- 
cress in  bloom  in  the  open  pools,  sur- 
rounded by  quaking  bog  and  alder 
shade.  Toward  this  my  butterfly  had 
gone,  and  I  followed,  balancing  warily 
from  clump  to  clump  in  the  grateful 
coolness,  testing  each  foothold  lest  it 
drop  me  into  the  clinging  depths  below 
whence  nothing  but  a  derrick  might 
lift  me.  The  arethusa,  daintiest  of 
orchids,  nodded  its  pink  head  at  me 
from  the  quaking  sphagnum,  daintily 
bowing  me  on,  but  I  paused  a  moment. 

In  the  water  right  between  my  feet 
was  a  spotted  turtle  that  had  just  cap- 
tured an  appetizing,  but  by  no  means 
dainty  morsel.  This  was  a  terrapin- 
like  bug  that  was  more  than  a  mouth- 
ful. His  body,  indeed,  was  already  out 
of  sight,  but  claw-like  legs  protruded 
from  both  sides  of  that  isosceles  tri- 
83 


WILD    PASTURES 

angle  which  a  turtle's  mouth  makes 
when  it  is  closed,  and  waved  a  frantic 
farewell  to  the  passing  under-water 
world.  The  turtle  was  a  long  time  in 
masticating  his  terrapin,  but  it  was  a 
happy  time.  His  whole  body  blinked 
contentedly,  and  he  waved  his  forelegs 
with  a  caressing  out-push,  a  motion  ex- 
actly like  that  of  a  child  at  the  breast. 
Then  he  wagged  his  head  solemnly 
from  side  to  side  as  a  wise  turtle  might 
who  feels  that  such  good'  lunches  are 
put  up  by  fate  only  for  the  knowing 
ones  of  this  watery  world,  and  pushed 
himself  half  way  under  the  roots  of  a 
tussock  for  a  nap.  Soon  the  nether 
half  circle  of  his  shell  was  motionless, 
with  his  hind  legs  drawn  up  within. 
Only  his  little  spike  tail  protruded, 
waving  to  a  wee  passing  trout  the  news 
that  the  millennium  was  at  hand,  and 
84 


A    BUTTERFLY    CHASE 

the  turtle  and  the  bug-terrapin  had 
lain  down  together  in  peace  and  pros- 
perity, with  the  bug-terrapin  inside. 

I  looked  up  for  the  butterfly.  He 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Yet  my  trip 
was  to  be  worth  while,  for  right  in 
front  of  me  was  an  open  pool  sur- 
rounded by  a  quaking  bog,  a  pool 
t\venty  feet  across  packed  almost  solid 
\vith  the  white  panicled  heads  of  water- 
cress blooms  in  which  swarmed  a 
myriad  of  bees.  Their  drone  was  like 
that  at  the  front  door  of  a  hive  on  a 
hot  July  day,  yet  it  was  not  a  mono- 
tone as  that  is.  It  was  rather  like  a 
grand  chorus  singing  many  parts,  for 
these  were  all  wildwood  bees  of  a 
dozen  varieties.  There  was  not  a  hive 
tender  among  them. 

Lifting  my  admiring  gaze  from  the 
pool  with  its  white  panicles  and 

85 


WILD    PASTURES 

swarming  bees  I  saw  further  beauty 
beyond.  On  firmer  ground  nestling 
lovingly  against  an  old  chestnut  post 
was  a  great,  glorious  spike  of  haben- 
aria,  the  purple-fringed  orchis.  It  is 
not  uncommon,  the  habenaria,  in  peaty 
meadows,  but  no  man  sees  it  for  the 
first  time  in  the  season  without  a  great 
glow  of  delight,  and  I  hastened  over  to 
give  it  nearer  greeting.  Just  as  I 
reached  it  the  butterfly  came  dancing  up, 
but  not  to  sip  the  sweets  of  the  wonder- 
ful great  orchid.  Instead  he  lighted, 
right  under  my  nose,  on  the  roughest 
part  of  the  old  fence  post  and  began  to 
lick  this  as  he  had  the  pine  trunk. 

I  watched  him  again,  hearing  sub- 
consciously the  voice  of  a  great  crested 
flycatcher  over  on  a  near-by  tree,  cry- 
ing "  Grief,"  "  Grief."  A  moment  and 
the  little  red  tongue  which  I  had  noted 
86 


There  was  the  swish  of  wings,  the  snip-snap  of  a  bird's  beak, 
and  it  was  all  over 


A    BUTTERFLY    CHASE 

before  seemed  to  catch  on  the  roughest 
part  of  the  old  fence  post,  and  with  a 
sudden  scrape  the  Basilarchia  scraped 
it  off.  I  looked  in  amaze,  for  now  I 
saw  what  it  was.  From  the  honey 
heart  of  some  flower  a  little  red  worm 
had  become  attached  to  the  tip  of  the 
butterfly's  proboscis,  and  all  this  licking 
of  rough  surfaces  had  been  merely  to 
get  rid  of  him. 

Up  into  the  bright  sunshine  danced 
my  black  white  admiral.  There  was  the 
swish  of  wings,  the  snip-snip  of  a  bird's 
beak,  and  it  was  all  over.  The  cry  of 
the  great  crested  flycatcher  had  been  a 
prophecy  indeed,  and  the  white  admiral 
had  danced  blithely  out  of  existence. 

But  the  equatorial  haze  had  more 
tropical  enchantment  in  store,  for  the 
midday  sun  was  suddenly  wiped  out  by 
an  ominous  figure.  Some  one  had  un- 


WILD    PASTURES 

corked  that  bottle  which  held  the  heat 
genie  confined,  and  he  was  looming 
from  a  black  nimbus  below  into  white 
piles  of  cumulus  at  the  zenith.  His 
eyes  flashed  red  lightnings  and  he  spoke 
in  thunder  tones.  Somewhere  over  yon- 
der I  heard  the  great  crested  flycatcher 
crying  "Grief,"  "Grief,"  again.  It 
might  be  my  turn  next,  and  I  patted 
the  great  orchid  good-by  and  tiptoed 
through  the  sphagnum  and  climbed  the 
hill  again.  It  had  been  a  brief  but 
pleasant  trip.  A  butterfly  that  found  a 
tongue  and  a  turtle  that  ate  terrapin  with 
a  happy  smile  may  belong  with  the 
genie  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  or  with 
Alice  in  Wonderland,  or  both.  I  know 
that  I  found  them  at  the  fountain  head, 
under  the  grove  of  immemorial  pines, 
below  the  brow  of  .the  terminal  moraine 
where  sleep  the  fathers  of  the  hamlet. 
88 


DOWN    STREAM 


DOWN   STREAM 

1 F  you  have  ever  known  fishing,  real 
fishing,  not  the  guide-book  kind,  where 
you  "  whip  "  streams  for  fancy  fish  that 
bite  mainly  in  fancy  —  there  will  come  a 
day  in  late  July  when  it  will  be  neces- 
sary for  you  to  go  down  stream.  The 
excessive  heat  and  humidity  which  has 
been  killing  you  off  by  inches  and 
other  people  by  wholesale  for  weeks 
will  suddenly  vanish  before  a  cool,  dry 
northwester,  a  gladsome  reminder  to 
the  New  Englander  that  there  is  such 
a  thing  as  winter  after  all;  thank 
Heaven ! 

You    know    that    the    drought    dimin- 
ished  waters    still    fizz    out    from    under 
91 


WILD    PASTURES 

the  dam  and  purl  into  the  pool  below 
the  roadside  where  the  sunfish  congre- 
gate under  the  water  weeds.  Beyond 
this  they  prattle  down  the  meadow  under 
banks  where  the  hardback  stands  pink 
and  prim,  where  the  meadow-sweet  loves 
the  stream  so  much  that  it  bends 
toward  it  and  half  caresses,  and  \vhere 
the  meadow  grasses  in  complete  aban- 
donment whisper  of  it  in  every  wind 
and  bend  down  and  surreptitiously  kiss 
it  as  it  dimples  by.  Farther  down 
where  the  woodland  maples  troop  up 
to  meet  it  and  the  willows  sit  and 
bathe  pink  toes  in  the  current  is  the 
big  rock,  under  which  the  current  has 
dug  a  sandy  cave  in  which  linger  big 
yellow  perch,  ready  to  rush  out  and 
snatch  the  worm  that  comes  floating 
down  stream.  Here  you  will  hesitate 
but  finally  pass  on,  for  there  is  a  lure 
92 


DOWN    STREAM 

which  you  cannot  withstand  in  the  deep 
pool  farther  down. 

Because  you  are  wise  with  the  re- 
membered wisdom  of  boyhood,  you  have 
left  at  home  the  expensive  rod  and  reel. 
Just  back  from  the  swamp  edge  is  a 
birch  jungle  where  young  trees  stand 
as  thick  as  canes  in  a  Cuban  brake. 
Here  you  find  your  pole;  as  large  as 
your  thumb  at  the  butt,  tapering, 
straight,  clean  and  strong,  fifteen  feet  to 
the  tip.  Cut  it  and  trim  the  limbs  from 
it  and  bend  to  it  your  ten  feet  of  stout 
line  at  the  end  of  which  is  a  hook 
whose  curve  is  as  big  as  that  of  your 
little  finger  nail.  A  cork  that  would  fit 
a  quart  bottle  will  fit  your  line  if  you 
gash  it  with  your  pocket  knife  and  slip 
the  line  in  the  gash.  It  will  hold 
wherever  you  put  it,  yet  you  may  slide 
it  up  and  down  at  will.  For  the  pool 
93 


WILD    PASTURES 

you  should  put  it  three  feet  from  your 
hook,  for  you  will  wish  to  "  sink  "  that 
deep.  Wind  a  wee  bit  of  lead  about 
your  line  an  inch  above  the  hook,  then 
pull  out  your  bait  box  and  select  a  fat 
angle-worm.  Break  him  in  two  in  the 
middle  and  string  him  on  the  hook  so 
that  the  point  is  just  inside  the  tip  of 
his  nose.  Now  you  are  ready  for  what 
adventure  may  lurk  under  the  bubbly 
foam  of  the  surface. 

A  willow  and  a  maple  lean  together  in 
loving  embrace  over  the  entrance  to  the 
deep  pool.  Above,  their  arms  stretch 
toward  one  another  and  intertwine;  be- 
low, their  roots  meet  under  water  and 
sway  down  stream,  forming  a  slippery 
steep  down  which  the  amber  yellow 
water,  singing  a  happy  little  song  to  it- 
self, coasts  into  the  amber  black  depths 
of  the  pool.  Black  alders  stand  cool- 
94 


DOWN    STREAM 

ing  their  feet  all  about  the  edge. 
Crowding  them  into  the  water  are  the 
great  oaks  and  maples  whose  limbs 
yearn  above  the  pool  till  they  shut  out 
the  sun.  Along  one  side  the  current 
has  cut  deep  to  the  rough  rocks  and 
the  water  flows  black  and  swift.  On 
the  other  the  back-wash  circles  leisurely 
and  the  bottom  shallows  to  a  bank  of 
sand  where  the  sunfish  build  their  nests 
and  the  fresh- water  clams  burrow  and 
put  up  suppliant  mouths  to  the  food- 
bearing  current.  Inshore  it  lifts  to  a 
sand  bar,  where  you  may  stand  and 
swing  your  pole  without  interference 
from  the  surrounding  trees. 

All  day  long  the  brook  sings  itself  to 
sleep  as  it  slips  down  the  slide  into  the 
slumberous  depths  of  the  pool.  All  day 
long  the  vivid  green  dragon-flies  flutter 
by  with  vivid  black  wings  to  bring 
95 


WILD    PASTURES 

luck  to  your  fishing,  and  the  red-eyed 
vireo  pipes  his  sleepy  note  in  the  trees 
above.  And  all  day  long  you  shall  catch 
fish  if  you  will  but  bait  your  hook  and 
drop  it  in.  First  you  will  thin  out  the 
sunfish,  for  they  are  the  most  alert  and 
gamy  of  all.  Talk  about  trout!  You 
should  try  landing  a  half-pound  sunfish 
on  a  gossamer  tackle  and  a  very  slender 
pole.  The  sunfish  is  the  Lepomis  gib- 
bosus  of  the  ichthyologists  and  is  a  close 
relative  of  the  rock  bass,  and  just  as 
game.  He  has  been  irreverently  dubbed 
"  pumpkin  seed "  in  some  places,  from 
his  shape,  which  is  that  of  a  pumpkin 
seed  set  up  on  edge.  Here  in  eastern 
Massachusetts  he  is  just  plain  "  kiver," 
which  is  the  oldtime  uneducated  New 
Englander's  pronunciation  of  the  word 
"  cover,"  given  him,  no  doubt,  because 
he  is  round  and  flat.  He  is  as  freckled 
96 


The  way  of  the  "  kiver  "  is  this.   There  is  a  single,  snappy,  business- 
like bob,  then  another,  then  three  in  quick  succession 


DOWN    STREAM 

as  a  street  urchin  and  as  lively.  He 
has  business  with  your  bait  the  moment 
it  drops  near  him,  and  the  bobbing  cork 
will  show  that  it  is  he  by  the  jaunty 
vigor  of  its  bobs. 

In  fact,  if  you  have  learned  the  ways 
of  the  down-stream  country  you  will 
know  every  fish  that  takes  your  bait 
long  before  you  have  brought  him  to 
the  surface  from  the  amber  depths,  just 
by  the  way  in  which  he  bobs  that  float- 
ing cork.  The  way  of  the  "  kiver "  is 
this.  There  is  a  single,  snappy,  busi- 
ness-like bob,  then  another,  then  three 
in  quick  succession  in  which  he  drags 
the  cork  half  under.  If  you  strike  just 
at  the  right  time  during  the  succession 
of  three,  when  the  line  below  is  taut 
with  the  strain  of  the  float  against  the 
pull  of  the  fish,  you  shall  have  him. 
Otherwise  your  cork  will  lift  from  the 
97 


WILD    PASTURES 

water  with  a  humorous  snort  and  you 
will  hear  little  trills  of  derisive  laughter 
in  the  song  of  the  stream  cascading 
down  the  willow  root  chute.  It  will  be 
safer  not  to  try  him  on  the  three  bobs, 
but  wait  till  the  cork  begins  to  bore 
into  the  water  and  glide  off  across 
stream,  showing  that  the  sunfish  has 
made  up  his  mind  that  it  is  a  worm,  a 
good  one,  and  one  that  he  really  wants. 
The  mother  sunfish  just  at  this  time 
of  year  has  her  nest  in  the  sand  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  bar,  in  shallow  water. 
It  is  a  circular  depression  which  she 
has  scooped  out  and  from  which  she 
has  carefully  removed  all  pebbles  and 
sticks.  Here  she  has  laid  her  eggs,  and 
here,  day  and  night,  she  stands  guard 
over  them.  If  any  other  fish  comes 
along,  even  of  her  own  kind,  she  will 
chase  it  away  with  a  brustling  courage 


DOWN    STREAM 

which  is  like  that  of  a  mother  hen  de- 
fending her  chicks,  So,  after  you  have 
caught  the  freelance  sunfish  of  the 
pool,  those  which  have  no  family 
cares,  do  not  drop  your  bait  near  her 
nest,  for  if  you  do  she  will  dart  out  and 
take  it,  and  it  is  a  pity  to  have  the 
brook  lose  her.  She  has  made  her  nest 
in  the  one  shallow  spot  where  the 
bright  sunlight  plays,  and  you  may 
see  every  dapple  of  her  lovely  sides  as 
the  light  glances  on  them.  Her  every 
fin  quivers  as  she  floats  there,  slowly 
turning  from  side  to  side,  her  bright 
eyes  roving  in  search  of  enemies  to  her 
offspring.  She  is  a  whole  torpedo  boat 
of  mother  love  and  pent-up  energy,  and 
so  let  us  leave  her,  for  she  makes  the 
whole  pool  seem  homelike  and  hospi- 
table. 

The  yellow   perch   will   come   next   to 
99 


WILD    PASTURES 

your  hook,  his  tawny  yellow  sides 
marked  by  bands  of  dark  green,  his 
back  a  darker  green  yet,  and  his  fins  a 
rich  red.  He  is  the  aristocrat  of  the 
pool,  his  family  being  'one  of  the  very 
oldest  in  the  fish  domesday  book.  He 
lies  in  deeper  water  than  the  sunfish, 
and  his  bite  varies  from  a  gentle  nibble 
to  a  good  strong  succession  of  pulls 
which  finally  end  in  the  cork  going 
down  out  of  sight  altogether.  Yet 
when  he  is  at  the  bait  you  shall  not 
mistake  any  motion  of  that  bob  for  the 
ones  made  by  the  sunfish.  The  perch 
has  a  daintier,  more  gentlemanly  touch. 
It  is  sure  and  strong,  but  it  lacks  the 
roistering  vitality  of  the  sunfish.  It  is 
an  aristocratic  bite,  and  you  will  recog- 
nize it  as  such  without  clearly  knowing 
why,  —  which  is  proof  of  his  aristoc- 
racy. You  will  recognize  it,  too,  from 

100 


DOWN    STREAM 

the  elegance  of  his  figure  and  the 
chaste  beauty  of  his  attire.  He  gleams 
in  the  sunlight.  His  yellow  and  green 
markings  are  as  vivid  as  those  of  the 
sunfish,  yet  arranged  in  exquisite  taste, 
and  he  is  dapper  where  the  other  is 
bourgeois. 

Sink  a  little  deeper  now,  for  it  is 
time  you  caught  horn-pouts.  The  horn- 
pout  is  also  "  bull-head/'  and,  irrever- 
ently I  fear,  "  minister/5  because  of  the 
severity  of  his  black  attire,  which  is  re- 
lieved only  by  a  white  vest.  But  horn- 
pout  is  the  best  name,  for  his  horns 
stick  out  fierce  and  straight  from  either 
side  of  his  gills  like  the  waxed  mus- 
tachios  of  a  stage  Frenchman.  They 
are  sharp  as  needles  and  set  as  firm  as 
daggers  in  their  sockets.  When  you 
outrage  the  dignity  of  a  horn-pout  by 
pulling  him  out  of  the  water  he  wag- 
101 


WILD    PASTURES 

gles  these  fins  of  dagger-bone  and 
makes  a  peculiar  grumbling  sound  with 
them.  It  is  as  if  he  said,  "What! 
what!  What's  all  this?  Who  dares 
disturb  my  comfort?"  Then  when  you 
reach  to  take  him  off  the  hook  he  flips 
that  nimble  black  tail  of  his  and  jabs  his 
dagger  into  your  hand.  It  makes  an  ugly 
wound,  and  the  boys  claim  that  it  con- 
ceals venom;  a  sort  of  poisoned  dag- 
ger. The  horn-pout  bobs  your  float- 
ing cork  usually  twice  or  three  times,  a 
very  different  bob  from  either  that  of 
the  sunfish  or  the  yellow  perch.  It  is  a 
steady,  solid  down  pull  each  time,  tak- 
ing the  cork  half  under  water.  Then  he 
takes  hold  in  earnest,  and  the  float  goes 
steadily  down  and  out,  as  if  this  were  a 
matter  of  no  child's  play,  but  meaning 
something  that  is  solid  and  substantial 
on  the  other  end  of  the  line.  Often- 
102 


DOWN    STREAM 

times  this  is  true  indeed,  for  the  black- 
coated  one  may  weigh  a  pound  or  two 
and  double  your  birch  rod  into  a  good 
half-circle  before  he  lets  go  his  grip  on 
the  water. 

When  you  get  down  to  the  horn- 
pouts  you  have  fishing  indeed,  but  all 
the  time  the  climax  of  your  day's  career 
is  lurking  down  in  the  cavernous  depths 
where  the  stream  has  gullied  far  be- 
neath the  ledge,  for  there,  as  thick  as 
your  wrist  and  three  feet  long,  weighing 
a  pound  to  the  foot  of  solid  white  flesh 
and  muscle,  is  an  eel. 

The  eel  is  the  strange  misanthrope  of 
the  brooks  and  fresh-water  ponds.  You 
may  peer  into  the  sunlit  shallows  and 
see  the  other  fishes  at  their  work  or 
play.  They  are  companionable.  If 
you  will  live  on  the  pond  edge  you  may 
train  the  minnows,  the  sunfish,  the  yel- 
103 


WILD    PASTURES 

low  perch  even,  to  come  up  and  eat  out 
of  your  hand.  I  have  watched  a  big 
horn-pout  lumbering  about  in  the  shady 
depths  for  an  hour  and  seen  him  care- 
fully inspect  a  hookless  worm  which  I 
had  dropped  to  him,  before  he  ate  it, 
noting  with  glee  the  gravity  and  self- 
importance  with  which  he  finally  decided 
that  it  was  all  right  and  that  he  would 
confer  a  favor  upon  it  by  swallowing  it 
whole.  Yet  never  once  have  I  seen  or 
laid  hands  on  an  eel  in  fresh  water. 
There  he  goes  his  own  mysterious  way 
among  the  rock  crevices  and  along  the 
mud  of  the  ultimate  depths.  The  other 
fishes  of  the  brook  travel  in  schools;  he 
goes  alone.  They  were  spawned  up 
stream;  he  was  born  on  the  sands  of 
the  fishing  banks,  a  hundred  miles  off 
shore.  He  came  upstream  as  a  young 
eel  squirming  through  dams  that  shut 
104 


DOWN    STREAM 

out  other  fishes.  When  the  time  comes 
for  him  to  go  back  he  will  go  back  the 
same  way,  waxed  fat  indeed,  but  still 
unseen,  devious,  self-possessed,  and  un- 
cannily shrewd. 

That  he  may  live  to  go  back  he  in- 
spects carefully  the  worms  which  may 
drop  into  the  cool  shadows  where  he 
lurks.  When  he  is  about  to  take  your 
bait  you  need  to  be  keen  to  know  what 
is  going  on,  for  he  suspects  you,  and 
your  least  untoward  motion  of  rod  or 
line  will  cause  him  to  slip  back  like  a 
shadow  into  his  cavern,  and  there  will 
be  no  bite  from  him  on  that  hook  after 
that.  You  will  say  that  it  cannot  pos- 
sibly be  a  bite;  the  bob  simply  stops  and 
the  hook  has  no  doubt  caught  on  a  snag 
on  bottom.  If  you  are  not  wise  enough 
to  know  better  you  will  pull  up  here  lest 
you  lose  your  hook,  and  in  so  doing  you 
105 


WILD    PASTURES 

will  lose  your  eel,  for  he  is  simply  testing 
you.  He  has  hold  of  the  very  bottom 
of  that  hook,  below  point  and  barb,  and 
if  you  pull  you  pull  it  out  of  his  mouth 
without  hooking  him.  Then  in  cynical 
glee  he  '11  wag  himself  deeper  into  his 
cavern  beneath  the  stones,  and  that  is 
the  last  of  him.  You  may  fish  the  pool 
for  a  week  before  he  will  forget  his 
caution  and  try  another  angle- worm.  If, 
however,  nothing  rouses  his  suspicions 
the  bob  will  gradually  sink  lower  till  it 
is  more  than  half  submerged,  hang  there 
for  a  little,  give  another  sag  downward, 
and  so  by  degrees  be  drawn  cautiously 
under.  Your  eel  is  cannily  carrying  the 
hook  down  into  his  cavern,  where  he 
may  finish  his  meal  at  leisure.  Now  is 
the  crucial  moment.  He  must  not  be  al- 
lowed to  get  in  among  the  stones,  for 
even  if  your  strike  hooks  him  he  will 
106 


DOWN    STREAM 

« 

twist  himself  desperately  around  them 
and  then  twist  the  hook  out.  A  steady 
quick  pull  and  you  feel  him  on.  Then 
indeed  you  "  give  him  the  butt/'  as  the 
fly  fishermen  say  gloryingly.  Your  lithe 
birch  rod  bends  in  your  hands  till  the  tip 
is  near  your  wrist  as  you  lean  desper- 
ately back  with  all  your  strength.  The 
hold  of  a  three-foot  eel  on  the  water  is 
tremendous.  Until  he  tires  a  bit  it  is 
almost  as  good  as  yours  on  the  birch 
pole,  but  steadily,  inch  by  inch,  you  draw 
him  away  out  into  the  pool,  where  the 
fight  is  a  fair  one.  Now  his  head  is 
above  water  and  his  great  lithe  body 
whirls  like  a  propeller  beneath.  Again 
look  out;  for  when  he  leaves  the  water 
it  will  be  as  if  he  shot  out,  and  you 
are  liable  to  go  with  him,  backward  into 
the  bushes,  where  he  will  tie  your  line 
into  ten  thousand  knots,  break  out  the 
107 


WILD    PASTURES 

• 
hook,  and  run  for  the  brook  as  a  snake 

might. 

At  the  moment  he  leaves  the  surface 
you  slow  up.  Up  into  the  air  he  shoots 
and  drops  till  his  tail  welts  the  ground 
at  your  feet.  Here  let  him  wriggle  at 
the  end  of  the  taut  line  while  you  break 
a  stout  alder  switch  with  one  hand,  and 
as  you  drop  him  to  earth  belabor  him 
with  it.  This  will  stun  him  quicker  than 
anything  else,  and  you  may  then  deal 
with  him  as  you  will,  only  be  quick 
about  it,  for  he  is  very  tenacious  of 
life. 

Then,  if  you  are  a  true  fisherman,  you 
will  wind  up  what  line  is  left  you  and 
go  your  way,  for  the  pool  has  no  more 
foemen  worthy  of  your  steel.  There  will 
be  but  one  eel  to  a  pool,  and  to  go  on 
catching  sunfish  would  be  insipid  indeed. 


108 


BROOK   MAGIC 


BROOK   MAGIC 

J3ROOK  magic  does  not  begin  until 
you  have  passed  the  deep  fishing-pool 
and  traversed  the  reedy  meadow  where 
the  flagroot  loves  to  go  swimming  and 
the  muskrats  come  to  spice  their  mid- 
night lunches  with  its  pungent  root  and 
pile  the  broad  flags  for  winter  nests. 
You  may,  if  you  are  alert,  feel  a  touch 
of  its  witchery  as  you  wind  among  the 
rocks  and  black  alders  of  the  level 
swamp  beyond,  for  here  the  ostrich- 
feather  fern  lifts  its  regal  plumes  as 
high  as  your  head,  and  if  by  any  chance 
you  duck  under  these  you  have  been 
near  the  portals  of  a  world  where  sor- 
cery is  rife,  for  fern  seed  has  a  mysteri- 
ous power  of  its  own,  and  the  ferns  of 
in 


WILD    PASTURES 

the  alder  swamp  are  decorations  on  the 
road  to  the  realm  of  the  witch-hazel, 
where  all  sorts  of  strange  things  may 
come  to  pass. 

The  ferns  and  the  witch-hazel  are 
themselves  mysterious  and  promoters  of 
mystery,  and  it  is  hard  to  tell  which 
leads  in  waywardness  and  subornation 
of  sorcery.  The  ferns  are  the  lingering 
representatives  of  an  elder  world,  —  a 
world  that  was  old  before  the  first  pine 
dropped  its  cones  or  the  leaves  of  the 
first  deciduous  tree  fell  on  the  first 
greensward.  Their  ways  are  not  the 
ways  of  modern  plant  life. 

Take  the  cinnamon  fern,  for  instance, 
one  of  the  commonest  of  our  woods.  It 
grows  up  each  spring  like  a  tender  and 
succulent  herb,  to  wither  and  die  down 
in  the  fall  as  the  grass  does.  But  take 
a  spade  into  the  woods  with  you  and  try 

112 


BROOK   MAGIC 

to  transplant  a  good-sized  cinnamon  fern. 
You  will  fail,  unless  you  have  brought 
an  axe  along  too,  for  the  seemingly 
herbaceous  plant  has  an  underground 
trunk,  sometimes  two  or  three  feet  in 
diameter,  almost  as  solid  and  firm  in 
texture  as  that  of  a  tree. 

The  fern  shows  no  blossom  to  the 
world  of  butterfly  or  moth,  no  fruit  for 
the  delectation  of  fox  or  field  mouse. 
The  curious  little  dots  growing  along  the 
margins  of  the  leaves,  which  we  call 
"  fern  seed  "  by  courtesy,  grow  no  fern 
when  planted.  They  simply  grow  a  little 
primitive  leaf  form  which  curiously  im- 
itates a  blossom  in  its  functions  and 
produces  a  new  fern. 

But  the  witch-hazel  is  stranger  yet  in 
its  ways.  In  the  spring,  when  it  should 
by  all  tokens  of  the  plant  world  be  put- 
ting out  blossoms,  it  is  busy  growing 


WILD    PASTURES 

nuts  which  are  the  product  of  last 
year's  blossoms.  Then  in  the  late  au- 
tumn, even  November,  you  will  find  it 
in  bloom,  twisting  yellow  petal  fingers 
in  mourning  at  the  fall  of  its  own 
leaves. 

Pluck  one  of  the  nuts  of  a  midsum- 
mer evening  and  look  it  intently  in  the 
face.  Note  the  little  shrewd  pig  eyes  of 
the  witch  far  ingrown  in  it,  the  funny 
shrewish  tip-tilted  nose,  the  puffy  cheeks 
and  eyelids.  See  that  slender  horn  in 
the  forehead,  the  sure  mark  of  the 
witch.  No  wonder  that  it  has  the  name 
witch-hazel  with  such  ways  and  such 
faces  growing  all  over  it  at  a  time 
when  most  other  trees  and  shrubs  have 
but  finished  blossoming.  But  if  you 
want  further  proof  that  this  shrub  har- 
bors witches  you  need  but  to  examine 
its  oval,  wavy- toothed  leaves  just  at  this 
114 


That  such  things  are  not  seen  oftener  is  simply  because  people 
are  dull  and  go  to  bed  instead  of  sitting  out  under  the 
witch-hazel  at  midnight  of  a  full  moon 


BROOK    MAGIC 

time  of  the  year  and  see  the  little  con- 
ical red  witch-caps  hung  on  them.  There 
need  be  but  little  doubt  that,  sitting 
under  it  at  midnight  of  a  full  moon, 
you  may  see  the  witch  faces  detach 
themselves  from  the  limbs,  put  on  these 
red  caps  and  sail  off  across  the  great 
yellow  disk.  That  such  things  are  not 
seen  oftener  is  simply  because  people  are 
dull  and  go  to  bed  instead  of  sitting 
out  under  the  witch-hazel  at  midnight 
of  a  full  moon. 

To  be  sure  there  are  scientific  men, 
gray-bearded  entomologists,  who  will  tell 
us  that  these  little  red  caps  are  galls, 
the  rearing-place  of  plant  aphids,  caused 
by  the  laying  of  the  mother  insect's  egg 
within  the  tissue  of  the  leaf,  but  one 
might  as  well  believe  that  the  witches 
hang  their  hats  on  the  witch-hazel  over 
night  as  to  believe  that  the  laying  of  a 


WILD    PASTURES 

minute  egg  in  the  tissue  of  a  leaf  could 
cause  the  plant  to  grow  a  witch  hat. 

No  doubt  these  same  wise  men  would 
explain  to  you  that  it  is  not  possible  to 
become  invisible  by  sprinkling  fern  seed 
on.  your  head  during  the  dark  of  the 
moon  and  saying  the  right  words,  but 
did  one  of  them  ever  try  it? 

It  is  appropriate  that  the  witch-hazel 
should  shade  the  portals  through  which 
the  brook  enters  the  glen  at  the  foot  of 
the  pasture,  for  the  path  here  enters 
you  into  a  world  of  witchery  where  the 
glamour  of  the  place  will  hold  you  long 
of  a  summer  afternoon. 

At  the  foot  of  the  glen  an  ancient 
mill-dam  once  blocked  the  free  passage 
of  the  water  and  a  mill-wheel  vexed  its 
current.  Now  only  the  rude  embank- 
ment remains  with  half-century  old  hick- 
ories and  maples  growing  on  it,  arching 
116 


BROOK   MAGIC 

in  and  shading  the  glen  with  their  im- 
bricated branches.  No  rust  of  mill- 
wheel,  no  trace  of  building  remains,  and 
the  very  tradition  of  the  mill  and  its 
owners  is  gone.  No  one  to-day  knows 
whether  it  ground  corn  or  sawed  boards 
for  the  pioneer  who  built  it,  who  laid  the 
sill  of  its  dam  so  firm  and  level  that  the 
wear  of  two  centuries  of  swift  water 
has  not  entirely  obliterated  it.  At  the 
very  bottom  of  the  glen  it  forms  a  shal- 
low pool  where  brook  magic  and  witch- 
hazel  glamour  shall  show  you  many 
midsummer  fantasies  if  you  will  but 
look  for  them. 

It  was  in  the  glen  that  I  found  the 
first  real  relief  from  the  heat  of  midday. 
The  grasses  of  the  sun-parched  pasture 
had  crisped  under  foot  and  broken  off, 
so  dry  were  they,  all  the  way  down  to 
the  sweet-flag  meadow.  Here  the  brook 
1.17 


WILD    PASTURES 

water  keeps  all  growing  things  lush  and 
green,  but  the  glare  of  the  sun  is  only 
the  more  intense.  It  follows  you  into 
the  alder  swamp,  and  you  may  sit  under 
the  arching  fronds  of  the  ostrich-plume 
ferns  in  vain. 

But  after  you  have  scrambled  through 
them  and  ducked  under  the  mock  bene- 
diction of  the  witch-hazel  limbs  that 
stretch  above  your  head  while  the  witch- 
hazel  faces  grin  a  cynical  "  Bless  you, 
my  child,"  you  feel  that  you  are  willing 
to  take  your  chances  with  swamp  witch- 
ery and  brook  magic.  For  in  the  glen 
cool  waters  crisp  over  cold  stones  and 
the  breeze  sighs  up  stream  and  fans 
you  as  you  sit  on  the  brink  of  the  pool 
and  lean  your  head  against  the  ledge 
from  whose  crannies  drip  the  fairy 
fronds  of  the  rock  fern. 

These  are  but  little  fellows  of  our 
118 


BROOK    MAGIC 

fern  world,  and  the  magic  which  distills 
from  their  fern  seed  is  no  doubt  less 
potent  than  that  from  greater  ferns,  but 
added  to  the  witch-hazel  glamour  it 
makes  brook  magic  which  will  initiate 
you  into  many  mysteries  of  the  pasture 
world  if  you  are  but  patient.  Sitting 
there  with  the  tiny  brown  spores  of  the 
rock  fern  dripping  upon  your  shoulders 
with  infinitesimal  rattle,  you  seem  to  see 
more  clearly  the  glen  life  and  to  know 
the  meaning  of  many  sounds  hitherto 
only  half  understood. 

Always  there  is  the  sleepy  song  which 
the  brook  sings  to  itself  in  summer,  — 
a  song  to  which  the  warble  of  the  vireo 
in  the  overhead  leafage  adds  but  a 
dreamy  staccato.  But  if  you  listen 
through  this  you  shall  presently  hear 
the  water  goblins  grumbling  to  them- 
selves in  their  abodes  under  flat  stones. 
119 


WILD    PASTURES 

They  are  old  and  grumpy,  these  water 
goblins,  and  they  never  cease  to  mumble 
to  themselves  about  their  troubles. 

Very  likely  they  complain  incessantly 
because  they  are  hungry  and  the  supply 
of  demoiselle  nymphs  is  running  short. 
There  are  plenty  of  demoiselles,  flitting 
back  and  forth  across  the  pools  on  glit- 
tering black  wings,  which  they  fold 
closely  to  their  iridescent  green  bodies 
when  they  light.  They  are  such  lady- 
like dragon-flies  that  it  is  no  wonder 
that  the  name  "  demoiselle,"  which 
French  scientists  with  admirable  gallan- 
try have  given  them,  has  stuck.  With 
all  their  ladylike  short  and  modest  flights 
and  the  saintly  way  in  which  they  fold 
their  wings  when  they  light  on  some 
leaf  beside  the  pool,  a  folding  as  of 
hands  in  prayer,  the  demoiselles  are 
dragon-flies,  and  each  prayer  may  well 
120 


BROOK   MAGIC 

be  for  the  soul  of  some  midge  or 
other  wee  insect  captured  in  the  short 
flight. 

The  true  dragon-fly  —  the  one  which 
rests  with  wings  widespread  —  hunts  like 
a  hawk,  but  the  demoiselles  seem  to  take 
their  prey  with  a  gentle  grace  and  charm 
of  manner  which  ought  to  make  the 
midge's  last  moments  his  happiest  ones. 
I  always  suspect  them  of  folding  him 
in  a  perfumed  napkin  and  eating  him 
with  salad  dressing  and  a  spoon  after 
they  get  back  to  their  boudoir,  but  I 
cannot  prove  this  any  more  than  I  can 
that  it  is  really  a  water  goblin  that 
grumbles  under  the  flat  stone. 

Many  a  time  I  have  turned  the  stones 
over  suddenly,  but  I  never  yet  was  quick 
enough  to  surprise  the  goblin.  I  have 
found  him  there,  mind  you,  but  never 
in  his  true  shape.  Always  he  has  man- 

121 


WILD    PASTURES 

aged  to  transform  himself  into  something 
different,  —  perhaps  into  a  spotted  turtle 
or  a  grouchy  horn-pout.  I  have  even 
known  him  to  turn  into  an  ugly,  many- 
legged  helgramite  worm,  not  having  time 
to  make  the  more  reputable  transforma- 
tion. It  is  hard  to  catch  a  grumbling 
goblin  asleep,  especially  in  a  pool  below 
the  witch-hazels,  where  the  brook  magic 
is  strong. 

It  is  easier  to  see  the  demoiselle 
nymphs.  They  are  not  very  beautiful 
or  seemingly  very  savory,  and  if  the 
water  goblins  do  eat  them  it  is  no  won- 
der they  grumble.  You  may  have  seen 
a  hawk-like  dragon-fly  skimming  about 
over  an  open  pool  dip  in  swallow  fashion 
to  the  surface.  These  sudden  and  re- 
peated dips  are  not  for  a  bath  nor  yet 
for  a  drink.  What  you  see  is  a  female 
dragon-fly  laying  eggs  which  shall  later 

122 


BROOK   MAGIC 

hatch  and  become  imder-water  nymphs, 
the  larvae  of  the  dragon-fly.  But  the 
demoiselles,  still  rightly  named,  do  noth- 
ing so  brazen  as  that.  Instead,  they 
pick  out  some  nodding  water  weed,  fold 
their  wings  a  little  more  tightly  to  their 
iridescent  bodies  and  crawl  down  it  into 
the  water.  Here,  in  proper  seclusion 
beneath  the  surface,  they  pierce  the 
reed's  stem  with  keen  ovipositor  and  lay 
their  eggs.  Then  they  saunter  forth 
again  and  discreetly  eat  more  midges 
with  salad  dressing  and  a  spoon. 

If  you  look  closely  among  the  water 
weeds  in  the  transparent  water  at  the 
pool  margin  you  may  see  the  demoi- 
selle nymphs  crawling  about,  breathing 
through  feathers  in  their  tails,  and 
scooping  up  food  with  a  big  shovel 
which  sticks  out  under  their  chins.  They 
show  little  traces  of  their  coming  beauty. 
123 


WILD    PASTURES 

It  is  the  awkward  age  of  the  demoiselle, 
and  I  fancy  each  is  right  glad  to  do  up 
the  hair,  get  into  long  black  skirts  with 
iridescent  green  bodices,  and  join  the 
afternoon  tea  flitters. 

What  the  magic  is  in  the  brook, 
whereby  these  strange,  awkward,  crawl- 
ing creatures,  living  beneath  the  water, 
some  day  crawl  up  the  stem  of  a  water 
weed,  burst,  stretch  their  wings  and  fly 
away  the  saintly  and  demure  demoiselles 
of  the  pool,  I  do  not  know  —  whether  it 
be  distilled  from  the  witch-hazel  by  the 
summer  sun,  or  whether  it  slips  more 
mysteriously  from  beneath  the  breast- 
plate of  the  spore  of  the  polypody 
growing  just  above  my  head  in  the  rock 
crevice.  It  must  be  the  same  magic 
whereby  the  many-legged,  crawling  hel- 
gramite  worm,  after  living  that  sort  of 
life  sometimes  for  several  years,  one 
124 


BROOK   MAGIC 

day  crawls  ashore,  goes  to  sleep  beneath 
a  stone,  and  in  another  month  wakes  up 
and  finds  himself  a  Corydalis  comuta,  a 
three-inch-long  bug  with  extraordinary 
wings  and  great  horns,  —  a  bug  that 
might  well  make  one  of  those  witches, 
met  face  to  face  on  the  moon's  disk, 
shriek  and  fall  off  her  broomstick.  If 
he  can  be  that  thing,  changed  from  a 
helgramite  worm,  why  can  he  not  be 
a  helgramite  worm,  changed  from  the 
water  goblin  which  you  can  hear  grum- 
bling beneath  the  flat  stone  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  pool  beneath  the  witch- 
hazels  ? 

The  answer  is  to  be  found  neither  in 
the  rhyme  of  the  poet  nor  in  the  reason 
of  the  scientific  man. 

Musing  on  these  things  I  suddenly  sat 
up  from  my  quiet  seat  beneath  the  rock 
ferns,  for  more  magic  yet  was  being  dis- 
125 


WILD    PASTURES 

played  before  my  eyes.  Over  on  the 
further  side,  in  the  shallow  eddy,  the 
pool  was  troubled  a  second,  then  there 
rose  from  it  a  wee  sunfish,  not  more 
than  three  inches  long,  rose  from  it  tail 
first  and  began  balancing  across  the  pool 
surface  toward  me,  on  his  head.  His 
tail  quivered  in  the  air,  and  I  could  see 
his  freckles  growing  in  the  yellow  trans- 
parency of  his  skin,  yet,  though  I  watched 
with  wide  eyes,  he  was  two-thirds  the 
way  across  the  pool  toward  me  before  I 
noticed  beneath  him  the  tip  of  the  nose 
and  the  wicked  little  dark  eye  of  a  water 
snake.  At  sight  of  him  the  demoiselles 
should  have  shrieked  and  flown  away, 
but  they  made  no  move.  I,  however, 
indignant,  arose,  and  seizing  broken 
fragments  of  rock  was  about  to  lacerate 
him  and  loose  his  prey  when  I  quite 
suddenly  thought  better  of  it.  Had  not 
126 


BROOK    MAGIC 

I  a  few  days  before  come  down  stream 
to  the  deep  pool  above  and  carried  off  a 
string  of  perch,  sunfish,  pouts,  and  an 
eel?  Had  not  the  water  snake  also  a 
right  to  his  dinner? 

I  dropped  my  rock  fragments,  but 
there  was  no  longer  pleasure  in  waiting 
to  woo  the  demure  coquetry  of  the  de- 
moiselles. The  serpent  had  entered  Eden 
and  the  man  was  driven  forth.  I  lin- 
gered only  long  enough  to  see  the  grace 
and  strength  of  the  snake  as  he  glided 
over  the  sill  of  the  old  dam,  now  black 
and  sinuous,  now  giving  me  a  glimpse 
of  the  vivid  red  of  the  under  parts  of 
his  body,  but  always  keeping  his  grip 
secure  on  the  little  sunfish  whom  he 
was  taking  away  to  luncheon  with 
him. 

I  climbed  out  of  the  glen,  glad  to  go 
for  once,  but  at  the  top  of  the  rock 
127 


WILD    PASTURES 

where  the  sunburnt  pasture  path  begins 
again  I  was  in  for  another  shudder,  for 
here  the  dragon  had  entered  fairyland. 
He  came,  writhing  his  horrid  length 
along  the  path,  his  scales  shining  in  the 
sun,  his  great  mouth  gaping,  and  up  near 
his  abnormally  great  head  two  little  im- 
potent forelegs  wriggling.  Who  would  n't 
turn  and  run  before  such  a  creature  as 
this?  To  be  sure  he  was  scarce  three 
feet  long,  and  his  curiously  mottled- 
brown  back  was  that  of  the  common 
adder,  one  of  our  harmless  snakes,  though 
he  looks  ugly  enough  to  be  stuffed  with 
venom.  But  this  great  gaping  head 
and  the  wriggling  forelegs;  never  did 
flat-head  adder  have  such  a  front  as 
this! 

My  compassion  for  snakes  that  had  a 
right  to  their  dinner  vanished  before  this 
creature.     It  is  different  when  it  seems 
128 


BROOK   MAGIC 

as  if  you  might  be  the  dinner.  Those 
forelegs  beckoned,  and  how  could  I  tell 
but,  in  this  land  of  witch-hazel,  fern 
seed,  and  brook  magic,  I  might  not 
shrink  sufficiently  to  be  taken  in  by  that 
huge  mouth  in  that  misapplied  head? 
Death  were  better,  —  that  is,  death  for 
the  dragon,  —  and  I  caught  up  a  jagged 
piece  of  the  top  of  the  glen  and  hurled 
it  at  him*.  It  struck  the  beast  fair  amid- 
ships. The  dragon  whirled  and  writhed 
for  a  second  or  two  and  lay  motionless, 
and  behold!  the  head  separated  from  the 
body  and  began  to  limp  away.  Then 
first  was  the  spell  broken  and  I  saw 
clearly.  It  was  simply  a  flat-head  adder 
that  had  taken  a  good-sized  garden  toad 
for  his  dinner,  had  swallowed  him  whole 
as  far  as  the  forelegs,  but  failed  to  en- 
gulf these.  It  was  the  combination 

which  made  the  dragon. 
129 


WILD    PASTURES 

Somehow  I  have  n't  cared  for  the  glen 
since.  The  early  glamour  of  brook 
magic  is  pleasant,  but  I  fear  that,  like 
the  hasheesh  of  the  Orient,  its  end  is 
very  bad  dreams. 


130 


IN    THE    PONKAPOAG   BOGS 


IN    THE    PONKAPOAG   BOGS 

1  DO  not  find  in  all  my  wanderings, 
afield  or  afloat,  a  more  quaintly  delight- 
ful plant  than  the  floating-heart.  In  my 
pasture  world  it  grows  in  one  place  only, 
-  along  the  shallow  edges  of  the  bogs 
of  Ponkapoag  Pond.  I  think  no  other 
pond  or  stream  in  this  immediate  region 
has  it,  and  so  sweetly  shy  is  it  that  you 
may  pass  it  year  after  year  without  not- 
ing its  existence.  It  waits  until  the 
summer  has  marked  its  meridian  before 
it  ventures  to  send  up  its  dainty  little 
crepe  de  chine  petals,  each  fairy-like 
bloom  appearing  for  one  day  only  in  the 
very  throb  of  the  mottled  olive  and 
bronze  heart,  which  is  a  leaf.  The  leaf 
itself  is  barely  an  inch  across,  the  ex- 


WILD    PASTURES 

quisite  bloom  less  than  half  that;  yet 
once  you  know  it  you  love  it  beyond  all 
other  bog  plants  as  being  the  most  fairy- 
like  of  water-lilies,  though  it  is  not  a 
water-lily  at  all  when  it  comes  to  botan- 
ical classification,  being  of  the  gentian 
family. 

However,  not  to  be  a  water-lily  is  not 
so  bad  if  one  may  be  classed  with  the 
fringed  and  closed  gentians  which  are  to 
bloom  later  on  the  landward  edges  of  the 
bog.  As  the  little  blossom  fades  at 
nightfall,  its  short  stalk  curls  back  be- 
neath the  water  to  ripen  the  seeds  there, 
hung  just  beneath  the  leaf  from  a  pecu- 
liar bulb-like  nodule  just  an  inch  or  so 
down  on  the  petiole.  The  next  morning 
another  wee  white  bud  shoots  up  in  the 
heart  angle  of  the  leaf  and  opens  fragile 
petals  in  the  sun. 

I  recall  no  other  plant  that  sends  up 


IN  THE   PONKAPOAG  BOGS 

blooms  from  the  leaf  stalk  in  this  way. 
When  the  seeds  have  ripened  I  suspect 
the  plant  of  setting  this  bulb-like  nodule 
free  to  float  away  to  another  shore,  take 
root  as  a  real  corm  or  tuber  might,  and 
produce  more  floating-hearts. 

This  bog  on  the  westerly  shore  of 
Ponkapoag  Pond  was  not  long  ago  made 
a  part  of  Boston's  park  system,  which 
thus  moves  ever  sedately  toward  the 
Berkshire  hills,  yet  it  is  a  bit  of  nature 
as  wild  and  untrammeled  as  it  was  in 
the  days  when  Myles  Standish  may  have 
looked  down  upon  it  from  the  top  of 
great  Blue  Hill,  as  it  had  stood  unchanged 
in  his  day  for  many  and  many  a  long 
century.  So  I  fancy  it  will  remain  for 
centuries  to  come,  for  Nature  holds  her 
own  here  well.  Indeed,  she  encroaches, 
for  a  bog  grows  wherever  it  has  free 
water  to  grow  into.  So,  after  many 


WILD    PASTURES 

centuries,  frequenters  of  the  Blue  Hill 
Reservation  will  note  a  broad  expanse 
of  swamp  land  where  once  sparkled  the 
waters  of  this  hundred-acre  pond.  For 
the  way  of  the  bog  is  this. 

All  along  its  under-water  front  the 
obscure  under-water  weeds  grow  up  and 
die  year  after  year,  generation  after 
generation,  forming  fertile  banks  of 
beautiful  soft  mud,  into  whose  lower 
depths  the  great  thick  rootstocks  of  the 
pond-lilies  push,  and  in  which  the  fibrous 
roots  of  the  tape  grass,  the  fresh-water 
eel  grass,  find  a  hold.  The  growth  and 
decay  of  these,  with  the  water  shield, 
with  its  jelly-protected  foliage,  the  yel- 
low dog-lily,  and  in  lesser  depths  the 
bulrush,  add  to  the  growing  bank  as 
coral  insects  grow  and  die  in  tropic  seas, 
until  it  is  near  enough  to  the  surface 
for  the  pickerel  weed  to  find  roothold. 
136 


IN  THE   PONKAPOAG  BOGS 

Then  indeed  the  bog  steps  forward  with 
vigor,  for  the  pickerel  weed  is  its  firing 
line.  All  summer  you  shall  see  its  blue 
banners  flaunting  gayly  in  the  southern 
breezes,  tempting  the  land-loving  bumble- 
bee to  sea,  calling  the  honey-bee  from 
the  mile-distant  hive,  and  offering  rest 
and  luncheon  to  a  myriad  lesser  insects, 
all  with  genial  hospitality.  Its  serried 
millions  in  close  ranks  breast  the  waves 
in  a  broad  blue  line  from  one  end  of  the 
bog  to  the  other,  a  half-mile  or  so. 

Behind  these  are  shallow  pools,  where 
again  you  find  the  white  water-lilies. 
Here  they  bloom  in  enormous  profusion 
from  late  June  until  early  September, 
reaching  their  grand  climax  during  late 
July.  On  such  a  day,  standing  in  the 
boat  at  the  southerly  end  of  the  bog, 
counting  those  within  a  given  space  and 
multiplying,  I  estimated  that  there  were 


WILD    PASTURES 

ten  thousand  of  the  fragrant  white  blooms 
in  sight.  Twice  as  many  more  were 
hidden  by  bulrush  and  pickerel  weed. 
On  Sundays  and  holidays  boatloads  of 
trolley  trippers  paddle  and  push  among 
them  and  carry  them  off  by  the  hundred, 
yet  they  make  no  mark  on  the  visible 
supply.  The  decay  of  the  leaves  and 
stems  of  these  add  to  the  under-water 
foothold  of  the  bog,  but  after  all  it  must 
be  the  reedy  stems,  sagittate  leaves,  and 
interwoven  roots  of  the  pickerel  weed 
that  are  its  main  foundation. 

Steadily  seaward  over  the  foundation 
thus  laid  progresses  the  long,  definite 
front  of  the  saw-edged  marsh  grass. 
Once  it  interlocks  its  roots  along  the 
mud  surface  formed  for  it,  it  leaves  no 
room  for  the  freer-growing  denizens  of 
the  shallows.  In  among  the  marsh  grass 
grows  no  flaunting  flag  of  pickerel  weed, 
138 


IN  THE   PONKAPOAG  BOGS 

no  pure  white  nymphaea  sends  forth  its 
rich  odor. 

Only  the  bog  cranberry  may  hold  its 
own  in  any  quantity  against  the  throt- 
tling squeeze  of  those  grass  roots.  Where 
these  grow  is  the  high  sea  of  the  bog, 
its  waves  rising  and  falling  in  the  free 
winds.  Yet,  just  as  pickerel  weed  and 
water-lily  give  way  before  the  advance 
of  the  marsh  grass,  so  it  in  turn  falls 
on  the  landward  side  before  the  advanc- 
ing hosts  of  the  swamp. 

A  steady  phalanx  of  swamp  cedars 
pushes  its  foothold  farther  and  farther 
out  upon  it,  year  by  year,  scouting  with 
button  bush  and  black  alder  and  holding 
every  inch  that  they  obtain  for  it.  Now 
and  then  something  happens  to  a  brief 
area  of  marsh  grass  and  cranberries  so 
that  their  dense  packed  minions  faint 
and  release  their  root  grip  on  the  quak- 


WILD    PASTURES 

ing  mud.  Every  such  opening  is  seized 
by  the  alder  or  the  button  bush,  and  the 
cedars  follow  them;  indeed,  sometimes 
the  cedars,  favored  by  the  right  wind  or 
the  right  bird  carriers  at  seeding  time, 
slip  in  first,  and  little  island  clumps  of 
their  dark  bronze  green  stand  here  and 
there  over  against  the  cadet  blue  of  Blue 
Hill  which  hangs  like  a  beautiful  drop- 
curtain  always  on  the  westerly  sky. 

Once,  a  half  century  ago  or  more,  a 
farmer  and  his  men  came  down  from 
the  pastures,  and  for  purposes  of  their 
own  cut  a  ditch  straight  through  the 
middle  of  the  bog  to  the  open  water. 
The  hundreds  of  scrawny  night  herons, 
sitting  on  pale  blue  eggs  in  scraggly  nests 
in  the  cedar  swamp  must  have  heard  the 
cedars  laugh  as  this  went  on.  It  was 
the  swamp's  opportunity.  Where  the 
farmer  and  his  men  with  incredible 
140 


IN   THE   PONKAPOAG  BOGS 

labor  cut  and  tore  away  the  marsh- 
grass  roots  the  cedars  planted  their 
seeds,  and  called  upon  the  alders  and  the 
swamp  maples  and  the  thoroughwort,  the 
Joe  Pye  weed,  and  a  host  of  other  good 
citizens  of  the  swamp,  to  help  them. 

So  vigorous  was  the  sortie  and  so 
well  did  they  hold  their  ground  that  you 
may  trace  the  farmer's  wide  ditch  to- 
day only  as  a  causeway  down  which  the 
swamp  has  come  to  build  a  great 
wooded  area  in  the  midst  of  the  bog, 
accomplishing  in  half  a  century  what  it 
might  not  have  done  in  five  times  that 
had  it  not  been  for  human  aid.  Thus, 
slowly  as  you  and  I  count  time,  only  an 
inch  or  two  a  year  perhaps,  yet  all  too 
rapidly  for  the  joy  of  future  genera- 
tions, the  bog  encroaches  upon  the  pond 
and  the  swamp  follows  towards  com- 
plete possession,  which  as  the  centuries 
141 


WILD    PASTURES 

go  by  will  make  the  quaking  sphagnum 
firm  meadow  land. 

For  all  you  and  I  know,  the  Metro- 
politan Park  Commission  of  the  year 
3908  will  be  fixing  up  a  second  Frank- 
lin Field  here  for  the  camping  ground 
of  visiting  Pythians.  Meanwhile  let  us 
hasten  to  enjoy  our  bog  and  its  reedy 
borders. 

It  is  the  home  and  the  occasional  rest- 
ing place  of  many  a  wild  free  creature. 
Of  a  clear  midsummer  evening  you  may 
hear  the  muskrat  grubbing  roots  there, 
see,  perhaps,  the  moonlight  glint  on  the 
long  V-shaped  ripple  which  he  makes  as 
he  swims,  and  hear  his  snort  and  splash 
when  he  dives  at  sudden  sight  of  you. 
You  may  chance  upon  a  disconsolate 
bittern  sitting  clumsily  in  dumpy  pa- 
tience as  he  waits  for  food  to  splash 
up  to  him,  and  you  may  even  hear  him 
142 


Of  a  clear  midsummer  evening  you  may  hear  the  muskrat 
grubbing  roots  there  .  .  .  and  hear  his  snort  and  splash 
when  he  dives  at  sudden  sight  of  you 


IN   THE   PONKAPOAG   BOGS 

work  his  wheezy,  dislocated  wooden 
pump,  a  cry  as  awkward  and  disconso- 
late as  the  bird. 

The  muskrats  breed  in  the  bog,  the 
bittern  had  his  grassy  nest  there,  and  a 
myriad  blackbirds  have  made  the  low 
bushes  vocal  with  their  cheery  whistles 
all  summer.  They  are  flocking  now, 
getting  the  young  birds  in  training  for 
the  long  flight  south,  but  they  still  hang 
about  the  bog  and  they  still  whistle 
merrily.  Surely  it  is  not  environment 
that  makes  temperament.  Bittern  and 
blackbird  both  frequent  bogs,  yet  the 
bittern  is  a  lonely  misanthrope,  whom  I 
more  than  half  suspect  of  being  melan- 
choly mad,  while  the  blackbird  is  as 
cheery  and  as  fond  of  his  fellows  as  a 
candidate.  When  you  hear  his  whistle 
you  half  expect  him  to  light  on  a 
thwart,  hand  you  a  cigar,  and  ask  after 


WILD    PASTURES 
the   baby.      But   the   blackbird's    election 
is  sure  anyway. 

Another  loved  and  lovely  denizen  of 
these  bogs  is  the  wood  duck.  These 
breed  in  the  swamp,  the  mother  bird 
building  a  grassy  nest  in  a  hollow  tree, 
where  she  lays  from  eight  to  fourteen 
buff-white  eggs,  and  leads  her  yellow 
fluffy  ducklings  to  a  nearby  secluded 
pool  for  their  first  swim.  Later  they 
come  out  into  the  bog,  and  ultimately 
make  the  pond,  where  they  learn  to  for- 
age for  themselves.  By  the  first  of 
August  the  mother  bird  has  sent  them 
adrift,  in  the  main,  to  paddle  and  flap 
their  way  about  as  best  they  may.  They 
are  "  flappers/'  as  the  boys  call  them. 
That  is,  they  can  make  good  speed  along 
the  surface  by  half  running  and  flapping 
vigorously,  but  they  cannot  yet  fly 
enough  to  rise  into  the  air. 
144 


IN   THE   PONKAPOAG   BOGS 

One  of  these  young  wood  ducks  came 
out  of  the  bog  the  other  'morning,  just 
at  the  gray  of  dawn,  and  swam  over 
toward  the  boat  landing.  He  was  quite 
near  the  shore  when  I  took  ship  and 
rowed  to  seaward  of  him,  thus  shutting 
him  off  from  the  open  pond  and  from 
the  bog.  Then  for  an  hour  or  two  fol- 
lowed what  was  to  me  the  most  inter- 
esting duck  hunting  I  have  done  for  a 
long  time.  I  could  row  as  fast  as  he 
could  swim,  and  I  continually  edged  him 
along  the  south  shore,  getting  nearer 
every  minute.  I  have  read  much  of  the 
marvelous  intelligence  of  wild  crea- 
tures. Yet  I  saw  little  of  it  in  this 
chase.  The  duck  knew  me  for  an 
enemy,  on  general  principles,  for  I  was  a 
man,  and  I  was  evidently  coming  after 
him.  Even  rudimentary  intelligence 
should  have  told  him  to  flap  for  the  bog 


WILD    PASTURES 

as  fast  as  he  could.  He  did  nothing  of 
the  sort.  He  just  edged  along  down  the 
shore,  evidently  hoping  that  I  was  light- 
minded,  and  would  forget  all  about  him 
in  a  minute  or  two  if  let  alone.  But  I 
kept  at  it  until  I  was  so  near  I  could  see 
every  one  of  his  already  handsome 
feathers  and  note  the  coloring  of  those 
parts  which  had  not  yet  reached  the 
beauty  of  maturity.  I  could  see  the  yel- 
low rim  of  his  eye,  and  still  he  swam 
east  and  swam  west  but  made  no  real 
move  to  escape. 

Two  things  I  wished  to  learn  from 
my  wood  duck.  One  was  how  much 
general  intelligence  and  real  quickness 
of  wit  he  would  show  in  escaping.  The 
other  was  how  he  carried  his  wings  un- 
der water  if,  by  any  fortunate  chance,  I 
should  be  able  to  see  him  swim  after  he 
went  down  to  escape  me.  But  at  first 
146 


IN   THE   PONKAPOAG  BOGS 

he  was  so  irresolute  that  he  neither 
dived  nor  made  any  vigorous  attempt  to 
escape.  I  got  so  near,  that  to  avoid 
driving  him  up  the  bank  into  the  woods 
I  had  to  ease  away  a  bit.  Finally,  at  my 
second  approach,  he  did  try  to  flap  by 
the  end  of  the  boat,  but  I  spurted  and 
headed  him  off. 

It  was  a  long  time,  and  it  took  much 
manoeuvring  to  make  him  dive,  but  it 
finally  entered  his  head  that  he  might 
avoid  being  cornered  and  badgered  by 
going  under  water.  This  he  did,  going 
on  a  slant  just  a  very  little  below  the 
surface,  probably  because  he  was  in  too 
shallow  water  to  go  much  deeper,  and 
coming  up  well  to  seaward.  There  he 
preened  his  feathers,  took  a  sip  or  two 
of  water  and,  seemingly,  waited  to  be 
surrounded  a  second  time. 

I  rowed  out,  got  on  the  off-shore  side 


WILD    PASTURES 

of  him,  and  again  began  boating  him  in 
toward  the  shore.  He  showed  less  un- 
easiness this  time,  but  dived  and  swam 
out  again  after  considerable  more  press- 
ing. Again  and  again  I  repeated  this, 
sometimes  getting  no  sight  of  him  un- 
der water,  again  seeing  him  move  along 
very  plainly.  At  no  time  did  I  notice 
any  motion  of  the  wings  under  water. 
I  have  been  told  that  wild  ducks  when 
swimming  beneath  the  surface  make 
most  of  their  progress  with  their  wings, 
quite  literally  flying  under  water.  This 
may  be,  but  I  have  no  evidence  of  it  in 
the  under-water  action  of  this  one. 

Again,  it  has  been  sagely  impressed 
upon  me  by  old  duck  hunters  that  you 
could  tell  in  what  direction  from  your 
boat  a  bird  would  rise  by  noting  the 
way  in  which  his  bill  pointed  when  he 
went  under.  I  think  it  was  Adirondack 
148 


IN   THE   PONKAPOAG   BOGS 

Murray  in  that  famous  loon-hunting  chap- 
ter who  first  made  the  point,  and  it  has 
been  insisted  upon  by  many  another  suc- 
cessor. But,  bless  you,  my  half-grown 
wood  duck  made  no  difficulty  of  going 
down  with  his  head  toward  the  morning 
and  coming  up  in  the  sunset  portion  of 
the  view.  He  took  slants  under  water 
and  cut  semicircles  at  will.  But  I 
could  n't  see  him  use  his  wings  while 
beneath  the  wave. 

Little  by  little  he  got  over  being  ex- 
cited by  my  presence.  He  began  to  eat 
bugs  off  the  lily  pads  as  he  went  by,  and 
now  and  then  tip  up  for  an  under-water 
search,  Thus  we  coquetted  with  one 
another  all  along  the  southern  shore  of 
the  pond,  and  when  I  finally  cornered 
him  for  a  last  time  in  behind  Loon 
Island  he  dove  without  embarrassment 
and  began  his  feeding  as  soon  as  he  had 
149 


WILD    PASTURES 

again  reached  the  surface.  The  chase 
was  no  longer  exciting,  and  I  turned  my 
attention  to  something  else.  Then  he 
swam  out  quite  a  little  further  into  the 
pond,  preened  his  feathers  carefully, 
tucked  his  head  under  his  wing  and 
went  to  sleep! 

Evidently  he  had  decided  that  I  was 
eccentric,  but  harmless,  and  the  best  way 
to  escape  my  attentions  would  be  to 
leave  me  severely  alone. 

And  there  you  have  it.  I  think  the 
wood  duck  is  beautiful,  but  not  very 
bright.  Yet  it  occurs  to  me  that  some 
Sherlock  Holmes  of  the  woods  may 
prove,  to  the  satisfaction  of  Dr.  Watson 
anyway,  that  he  is  preternaturally 
clever,  in  that  this  one,  though  still 
young,  was  keen  enough  to  see  that 
from  the  first  I  had  no  evil  intentions 
toward  him. 

150 


SOME  BUTTERFLY  FRIENDS 


SOME   BUTTERFLY   FRIENDS 


dusk  all  the  edges  of  the  pond 
are  lighted  with  the  white  candles  of 
the  clethra.  Its  fragrance  has  in  it  that 
fine  essence  which  goes  to  the  making 
of  the  nectar  and  ambrosia  of  the  gods. 
He  who  would  sup  with  them  may  do 
so  by  taking  canoe  of  an  early  August 
twilight  when  the  purple  arras  of  the 
coves  glow  softly  golden  with  the  re- 
flected light  of  the  sunset's  afterglow. 
Then  the  coarser  air  seems  to  have  let 
the  light  slip  from  between  its  clumsy 
particles,  leaving  its  more  ethereal 
essence  still  clinging  to  a  more  subtle 
interatomic  fluid. 

The    fragrance    of    the    clethra    seems 
always   to   me   as    fine   as   this   spirit   of 
153 


WILD    PASTURES 

light  in  the  ambrosial  twilight  of  the 
ripened  summer.  It  is  no  air-borne  de- 
light like  the  resinous  scent  of  the  forest 
pines  or  the  pasture  sweet-fern  when 
the  hot  sun  of  midday  distills  them  and 
the  hot  wind  of  midday  sends  them  far 
to  you  across  the  quivering  fields.  It  is 
something  finer,  softer,  more  silkily 
subtle,  which,  like  the  rose  gold  of  the 
afterglow  of  the  sunset,  tints  the  dusk 
of  the  cove  between  the  air  atoms,  not 
by  way  of  them. 

Then,  as  the  gold  glimmers  and  fades 
and  the  pink  faints  in  the  cooling  purple 
of  the  dusk,  and  the  outline  of  the  cove 
shore  slips  from  the  front  of  your  eye 
to  the  chambers  of  memory  behind  it,  so 
that  you  else  might  see  it  best  with  the 
eyes  shut,  the  white  candles  are  lighted 
and  the  eager  moth  sees  by  them  to  sup 
with  you  and  me  and  the  gods  on  this 


SOME    BUTTERFLY    FRIENDS 

essence  of  ambrosia,  to  tipple  on  this 
spirit  of  nectar  which  the  night  reserves 
for  those  that  love  it. 

I  do  not  know  why  the  clethra  which 
gleams  so  white  in  the  dusk  should 
need  anything  more  than  its  own  white 
beauty  to  call  the  moth  to  its  wooing. 
Perhaps  it  does  not  need  more.  Per- 
haps all  this  fine  fragrance  is  but  the 
overflow  of  its  soul's  delight  at  being 
young  and  chastely  beautiful,  and  trem- 
bling in  the  ultra  violet  darkness  on  that 
delicious  verge  of  life  that  waits  the 
wooer.  I  half  fancy  that  this  is  true  of 
all  perfume  of  flowers,  that  it  is  less  a 
call  to  butterfly  or  bee  to  come  to  their 
winning  than  it  is  a  radiation  of  delight 
from  their  own  pure  hearts  at  the  dawn- 
ing of  the  full  joy  of  living.  I  am  not 
always  'willing  to  take  the  word  of  the 
scientific  investigator  on  these  points  as 


WILD    PASTURES 

final.  The  scientists  of  the  not  very  re- 
mote past  have  known  so  much  that  is 
not  so! 

It  is  possible  that,  just  as  a  hunting- 
dog  picks  up  a  scent  that  is  strong  in 
his  nostrils  and  has  no  power  in  ours, 
so  the  flowers  that  we  call  scentless 
send  out  an  odor  too  faintly  fine  for  our 
senses,  yet  one  that  the  antennae  of 
moth  or  bee  may  entangle  as  it  passes 
and  hold  for  a  certain  clue.  Perhaps 
the  scents  that  are  only  faint  to  us  carry 
far  for  the  butterfly,  but  if  so,  and  if 
flower  perfumes  are  made  only  for  the 
calling  of  insects,  why  need  they  be  made 
so  intoxicating  to  the  human  senses? 
The  scent  of  carnations  is  as  pleasing 
to  the  soul  as  a  strain  of  beautiful 
music,  and  equally  arouses  high  aspira- 
tions and  noble  longings.  So  to  me  the 
odor  of  the  clethra  at  nightfall  is  a 
156 


SOME    BUTTERFLY    FRIENDS 

tenuous  thread  of  ethereality  that 
reaches  far  toward  a  realm  of  spiritual 
ideals.  It  ought  to  go  with  a  ritual  and 
a  vested  choir. 

I  do  not  find  the  odor  of  the  pasture 
milkweed  speaking  thus  to  any  inner 
sense.  It  is  just  a  gentle,  lovable,  stay- 
at-home  smell  that  surely  does  not  float 
farther  than  the  pasture  bars.  Yet  of 
all  the  plants  that  have  bloomed  within 
my  world  of  garden  and  pasture  this 
summer  it  has  been  by  far  the  most 
popular  among  insects.  It  is  not  that  it 
is  the  most  attractive  to  the  eye,  in  any 
of  its  forms,  for  there  are  many  flowers 
of  colors  more  vivid  and  to  be  seen 
farther,  as  well  as  of  much  stronger 
scent.  Yet  all  day  long  you  will  find  it 
besieged  by  bees,  from  the  aristocratic 
Italian  worker  from  the  farmer's  best 
hive  down  to  those  scallawag  bees  that 
157 


WILD    PASTURES 

make  no  honey  for  themselves  but  lead 
a  vagabond  life  and  lay  their  eggs  in 
other  bees'  nests,  leaving  their  young  to 
grow  up  in  unendowed  orphan  asylums. 

Many  varieties  of  ants  seek  the  milk- 
weed blooms,  and  you  shall  find  about  a 
large  clump  more  sorts  of  wasps  than 
you  would  believe  existed,  yet  it  is  the 
butterflies  who  most  of  all  make  it  their 
rallying  place.  Every  butterfly  in  the 
whole  region  makes  it  his  business  to 
know  each  large  clump  of  milkweed, 
and  to  make  the  rounds  at  least  daily. 

There,  if  you  watch,  you  may  see 
the  pretty  little  pearl  crescent,  whose 
range  is  from  Labrador  to  Texas.  The 
shy  meadow  browns  flit  out  from  the 
shadow  of  the  brook  alders  and  feed  for 
a  moment  before  they  take  fright  at  the 
fact  that  they  are  out  in  society  and 
flit  desperately  back  again.  The  angle 
158 


SOME    BUTTERFLY    FRIENDS 

wings  flip  about  like  animated  question- 
marks,  and  fulvous  fritillaries  soar  se- 
dately, now  and  then  lighting  to  feed 
and  fold  their  wings  that  you  may  see 
the  big  silver  spots  of  the  under  parts. 
And  so  you  might  name  them  all,  al- 
most every  butterfly  of  early  August, 
all  besieging  the  milkweed  so  eagerly 
that  you  may  hardly  drive  them  away. 

The  fact  is  they  come  neither  for 
scent  nor  sight;  they  come  for  good 
taste  —  which  they  find  in  the  honey 
glands  of  the  peculiarly  shaped  bloom, 
which  are  obvious  and  sticky  and  within 
reach  of  all.  I  do  not  think  it  is  half 
so  much  the  odor  of  the  flower  which 
draws  them,  be  it  never  so  sweet  or  so 
strong,  but  memory  of  the  honey  dew 
sipped  there  yesterday  or  last  week. 
No  doubt  the  love  of  the  milkweed 
bloom  is  an  inherited  tendency,  also, 


WILD    PASTURES 

bred  in  the  bones  from  a  line  of  milk- 
weed-frequenting ancestors  infinitely  long. 

Indeed,  one  of  our  most  splendid  but- 
terflies is  the  Anosia  plexippus,  other- 
wise known  as  the  milkweed  butterfly, 
rightly  named  also  the  monarch.  Every 
boy  who  knows  the  country  in  summer 
knows  him  by  his  rich,  red  coloration, 
his  strong,  black-bordered  wings  with 
their  black  veins.  Every  bird  knows 
him  too1  and  lets  him  alone.  On  the 
first  median  nervule  of  the  hind  wings 
of  the  butterfly  is  a  scent  bag  whence 
he  dispenses  an  odor  so  disagreeable  to 
the  bird  who  would  eat  him  that  he  goes 
free,  and  is  not  afterward  troubled. 

Along  with  the  monarch  sipping 
honey  with  eager  industry  from  the 
meadow  milkweed,  you  will  often  see 
the  viceroy,  who,  as  a  viceroy  should, 
closely  imitates,  but  does  not  equal,  the 
160 


Every  boy  who  knows  the  country  in  summer  knows  him  by 
his  rich,  red  coloration,  his  strong,  black-bordered  wings 
with  their  black  veins 


SOME    BUTTERFLY    FRIENDS 

monarch.  He  has  neither  the  mon- 
arch's vigor  of  flight  nor  his  means  of 
defence  from  predatory  birds,  but  his 
safety  —  so  the  students  tell  us  —  lies 
in  looking  so  much  like  his  superior 
that  he  also  is  let  alone.  The  students 
go  on  to  say  that  his  is  a  good  example 
of  the  imitative  power  of  insects  where- 
by they  escape  destruction  by  seeming 
to  the  casual  eye  to  be  something  else. 

The  viceroy,  which  is  a  Basilarchia 
disippus,  thus  looks  not  the  least  like 
other  members  of  his  family,  but  con- 
sciously mimics  the  coloring  of  the 
monarch  for  safety.  Thus  many  tropi- 
cal beetles  contrive  to  look  like  wasps 
that  they  may  not  be  molested,  and 
some  insects  look  like  brown  leaves  and 
others  like  green  ones. 

But  do  they  contrive,  imitate,  mimic? 
It  is  no  doubt  true  that  because  of  the 
161 


WILD    PASTURES 

resemblance  they  escape,  but  to  say  that 
they  imitate  or  contrive  or  mimic  seems 
to  me  to  be  to  assume  a  knowledge  of 
the  workings  of  the  inner  consciousness 
of  an  insect  that  not  even  the  most  care- 
ful student  can  have.  I  am  more  in- 
clined to  believe  that  the  so-called 
mimics  are  fortunate  in  an  accidental 
resemblance  and  so  escape  the  destruc- 
tion of  their  species  which  has  fallen 
upon  many  a  less  fortunate  type. 

Yet  no  butterfly,  however  exquisite 
his  coloring,  or  however  strong  and 
graceful  his  flight,  twangs  with  his 
fluttering  wings  the  fine  heartstrings  of 
romance  as  does  the  monarch.  The 
first  one  that  came  dancing  down  the 
sunlight  to  the  sweet  rocket  in  bloom  in 
my  garden  this  spring  brought  to  me  a 
spicy  odor  of  tropic  isles.  The  beating 
of  his  wings  shed,  as  he  passed,  faint 
162 


SOME    BUTTERFLY    FRIENDS 

fragrance  of  Mexican  jasmine,  and  I 
thought  I  saw  slip  from  them  the  in- 
finitesimal dust  of  the  pollen  of  stepha- 
notis  lately  blooming  in  the  glades  of 
Panama.  Three  months  before  he 
floated  serenely  beneath  my  cherry  tree 
he  may  well  have  soared  through  the 
tropic  glades  where  crumble  the  ruins 
of  the  palaces  of  the  Incas. 

His  flight,  seemingly  as  frail  as  that 
of  a  red  autumn  leaf  sliding  down  the 
October  zephyr  to  carpet  the  nearby 
field  with  rustling  fragrance,  has 
matched  that  of  that  rifle-ball  of  bird 
life,  the  ruby-throated  humming  bird. 
Together  they  sip  the  sweets  of  my 
sweet  rocket  in  the  spring.  Together 
they  wing  their  way  south  to  the  region 
of  perpetual  summer  when  the  winds  of 
late  September  promise  frost.  Some- 
times in  this  annual  flight  the  monarchs 

163. 


WILD    PASTURES 

pass  the  sandy  stretches  of  the  New  Jer- 
sey coast  in  swarms  that,  stopping  at 
nightfall  for  rest,  refoliate  with  their 
folded  wings  the  shrubs  left  bare  by  the 
autumn  gales. 

It  may  be  that,  like  the  birds,  the 
knowledge  of  the  route  they  must  fol- 
low is  bred  in  the  marrow  of  their  but- 
terfly bones  by  the  constant  use  of  a 
million  generations.  It  may  be  that 
they  simply  drift  away  from  the  cool 
wind  from  the  North  toward  the  Southern 
sun  that  shines  so  serenely  in  the  bright 
autumn  days.  But  whether  through 
the  guiding  hand  of  Providence,  or  in- 
herited wisdom,  or  a  fortunate  tact  that 
acting  from  day  to  day  produces  the 
happy  result,  this  Southern  movement 
in  winter  is  the  sole  salvation  of  the 
species  here  in  the  North. 

If  they  did  not  make  these  long 
164 


SOME    BUTTERFLY    FRIENDS 

flights  we  should  have  no  Anosias  with 
us  each  summer,  for  unlike  other  butter- 
flies the  frost  kills  them  in  whatever 
form  they  remain  to  brave  it.  All  sum- 
mer long  their  long,  red  wings  bear 
them  bravely  from  one  clump  of  milk- 
weed to  another.  They  sip  the  honey 
which  each  floret  of  the  umbels  holds 
forth,  the  sticky  mass  the  size  of  a  pin- 
head.  They  lay  their  eggs  upon  its 
leaves  and  the  black  and  yellow  cater- 
pillars hatch  and  feed  there.  Then 
they  hang  in  a  green  and  gold  chrysalis 
from  a  nearby  twig  till  the  imago,  the 
perfect  butterfly,  bursts  its  bonds  and 
sails  away  to  find  more  milkweed. 
There  may  be  several  broods  of  a  sum- 
mer, but  the  frost  stops  all  that.  The 
monarch  may  not  winter  here,  nor  may 
his  eggs  or  chrysalids  survive  the 
cold. 

165 


WILD    PASTURES 

Many  butterflies,  frail  though  they 
seem,  do  pass  the  New  England  win- 
ter successfully.  The  Antiopa  vanessa, 
otherwise  known  as  mourning  cloak  or 
Camberwell  beauty,  a  handsome  brown 
fellow  with  blue  spots  and  a  pale  yellow 
margin,  well  known  to  every  one,  flits 
joyously  through  the  woods  with  the 
very  first  warm  days  of  spring.  He  has 
been  snugged  up  in  some  dry  crevice, 
numbed  and  torpid,  but  very  much  alive, 
all  winter.  The  first  genial  warmth 
sets  him  free,  and  later  I  always  find 
his  children  browsing  on  the  willow 
twigs  over  in  the  cove.  They  are  rough 
chaps,  horrid  with  bristling  black  spines 
and  with  dull  red  spots  relieving  their 
otherwise  plain  black  hides.  But  they 
grow  fast,  and  by  and  by  go  out  upon  a 
twig  and  hang  themselves,  head  down, 
by  a  little  silken  rope,  swinging  there  in 
166 


SOME    BUTTERFLY    FRIENDS 

the  wind,   simply  a  dead  caterpillar  that 
has  imitated  Judas. 

One  day  the  caterpillar  part  sloughs 
off.  It  is  a  fairly  sudden  process.  You 
may  paddle  by  the  willows  in  the  morn- 
ing and  see  all  your  little  Judases  hang- 
ing in  a  row.  Paddle  back  at  noon  and 
their  skins  have  shrivelled  and  slipped 
off,  and  you  have  chrysalids,  queer, 
impish-looking  things,  swinging  there 
still,  head  down.  You  know  they  are 
alive;  indeed,  if  you  poke  them  they  will 
wiggle  impatiently,  but  they  swing  in 
the  wind  and  give  no  other  sign  for  a 
week  or  ten  days.  Then  they  cast  a 
second  skin,  and  pop  out  full-grown  but- 
terflies that  stretch  their  wings  for  a 
time  leisurely,  then  suddenly  dash  into 
the  air  and  go  off  over  the  hill  like 
mad.  The  whole  thing  is  so  sudden! 
The  change,  when  it  does  come,  is  as 
167 


WILD    PASTURES 

if  some  woodland  magician  had  waved  a 
willow  wand  and  said  "  Abra-ca-dabra ; 
presto,  change ! "  Time  and  again  I 
have  watched  to  see  that  caterpillar 
skin  fall  off,  and  again  to  see  the  va- 
nessa  step  forth  from  the  domino  in 
which  it  has  been  masquerading,  but 
they  have  always  been  too  quick  for 
me. 

Other  butterflies  survive  in  the 
chrysalis  all  winter  and  come  forth  full 
grown  and  fit  in  the  spring.  Such  may 
speak  to  your  listening  imagination 
through  their  beauty,  which  is  often 
great,  or  through  their  resurrection 
from  seeming  death,  though  if  you  will 
observe  them  closely  in  the  chrysalid 
form  you  will  see  that  they  are  not 
even  seemingly  dead.  Evangelists  who 
have  held  up  the  butterfly  to  us  as  a 
prototype  of  that  resurrection  which  we 
168 


SOME    BUTTERFLY    FRIENDS 

may  expect  if  we  are  good,  evidently 
never  closely  observed  the  chrysalis  of  a 
good  healthy  butterfly,  else  they  had  not 
been  so  sure  of  their  corpse. 

Lately  I  have  had  chrysalids  of  the 
Papilio  asterias,  the  common  eastern 
swallowtail,  in  my  study.  I  found  the 
fat  black  and  yellow  worms  on  my  pars- 
ley and  caged  them.  They  soon  hitched 
themselves  to  the  wire  netting  by  their 
tails,  hanging  from  overhead  on  a  slant, 
their  shoulders  (so  to  speak)  being  sup- 
ported by  a  single  loop  of  silk.  If  you 
did  but  tap  on  the  wire  netting  or  scratch 
it  these  chrysalids  would  wiggle  and 
jerk  quite  angrily,  their  action  saying 
plainly,  "  Can't  you  let  me  alone?  I'm 
just  having  a  nap!"  No;  it  is  plainly 
no  death  and  resurrection  which  makes 
a  butterfly.  It  is  merely  a  caterpillar 
who  was  dressed  for  the  fancy  ball  all 
169 


WILD    PASTURES 

the  time.  He  came  to  the  woodland 
hall  in  his  greatcoat.  This  he  sheds 
for  a  domino,  in  which  he  masquerades 
for  a  time.  Then  he  bursts  forth  for 
the  final  festivities  in  a  robe  of  princely 
beauty. 

My  chrysalids  did  this  only  the  other 
day.  Wonderful  creatures  of  black 
and  yellow  came  forth,  stretched  their 
wings  till  I  could  see  the  dainty  shad- 
ing of  blue  and  the  peacock-feather  eye 
of  red  and  black  on  the  lower  part  of 
the  secondary  wings;  then,  as  I  opened 
the  window  they  dashed  madly  away 
as  the  vanessas  do  from  willow  twigs  in 
the  cove.  The  butterfly  has  been  held 
up  to  us  as  an  example  of  lazy  dalli- 
ance. I  have  never  watched  one  that 
was  not  as  busy  as  a  politician  on  elec- 
tion day.  Especially  do  those  just 
wakened  from  the  chrysalis  form  rush 
170 


SOME    BUTTERFLY    FRIENDS 

away  as  if  they  knew  all  their  work 
was  before  them  and  they  longed  to  be 
at  it. 

Of  them  all  the  monarch  is  not  the 
most  beautiful,  but  I  rank  him  as  surely 
the  ablest.  His  annual  migration  shows 
him  to  have  wonderful  strength  of 
wing,  and  either  much  wisdom  or  an 
extraordinarily  developed  instinct.  Very 
likely  he  has  both.  Further,  through 
accident  pure  and  simple,  or  else  a  spirit 
of  adventure  fostered  by  the  joys  of 
long  annual  journey,  he  is  steadily  ex- 
tending his  habitat  to  embrace  the 
known  world.  Originally  of  North 
America  only,  he  has  within  the  last 
dozen  years  taken  ship  for  Australia, 
where  he  has  multiplied  greatly  in  the 
warmer  regions,  and  has  wandered  again 
over  sea  to  Java,  Sumatra,  and  followed 
the  flag  into  the  Philippines.  He  is  well 


WILD    PASTURES 

established  at  the  Cape  de  Verde  Islands, 
and  is  doing  his  best  to  be  happy  in 
the  pale  sunshine  of  the  south  of  Eng- 
land, whence  specimens  are  reported 
yearly. 


172 


THE    RESTING  TIME   OF   THE 
BIRDS 


THE    RESTING   TIME    OF   THE 
BIRDS 

1  HIS  morning  I  heard  the  bluebirds 
again  for  the  first  time  for  weeks. 
They  came  up  from  the  pasture  to  the 
apple  trees  and  sang  their  modest  little 
snatches  of  song  in  that  shyly  sweet,  re- 
served yet  fond,  manner  which  makes 
the  bluebird  the  best  loved  of  all  our 
pasture  birds.  There  have  been  no  blue- 
birds about  my  garden  since  the  yegg 
raid  of  late  May  and  its  resulting 
tragedy.  Now  they  are  back,  but  there 
is  in  their  call  a.  note  of  sadness  which 
indeed  comes  into  the  voice  of  every 
bluebird  as  autumn  approaches,  though 
I  think  it  is  accentuated  in  mine  this 
year. 


WILD    PASTURES 

When  I  say  yegg  I  mean  English 
sparrow,  and  if  I  could  think  of  a 
worse  name,  equally  descriptive  of  him, 
I  would  give  it.  This  is  the  story  of  the 
foul  deed,  only  one  of  many,  no  doubt, 
perpetrated  by  this  cowardly  crew.  In 
late  March  I  put  out  in  my  garden  three 
bird  boxes  such  as  bluebirds  love  to 
inhabit.  These  were  immediately  in- 
spected by  the  neighborhood  flock  of 
English  sparrows,  just  beginning  to  pair 
off,  and  finally  decided  upon  as  unde- 
sirable, perhaps  because  I  had  inten- 
tionally placed  no  perch  before  the 
door. 

The  English  sparrow  will  build  his 
nest  in  any  impossible  place  to  which  he 
takes  a  fancy,  but  he  greatly  prefers,  in 
choosing  a  new  site,  one  that  has  a  con- 
venient perch  close  by  the  entrance.  So 
these  undesirable  citizens  decided  that 
176 


RESTING  TIME  OF  THE  BIRDS 

they  did  not  care  for  my  bird  boxes  and 
let  them  alone,  much  to  my  delight. 
Then  came  the  bluebirds,  bringing  to 
our  cold,  raw  spring  their  flashes  of 
blue  like  bits  of  a  heaven  that  is  fairer 
than  ours,  a  blue  that  is  hope  and 
dreams  of  happiness  and  all  things  noble 
yet  gentle.  There  is  no  color  like  it  as 
it  glints  across  pale  April  skies  and 
blooms  on  trees  that  have  been  bare  and 
gray  so  long.  So,  too,  no  bird  song  is 
so  dear  as  theirs.  It  is  but  a  wee, 
melodious  phrase  which  says  again  and 
again,  "Cheerily;  cheerily."  Yet  it 
voices  hope  and  contentment,  and  is  so 
purely  the  expression  of  the  joy  of 
gentle,  kindly  lives  that  it  touches  all 
that  is  fond  and  kindly  in  the  listener. 

Bluebirds   will   nest   in   the  hollow   of 
the  pasture  apple  tree  or  in  a  last  year's 
flicker's    abandoned    hole    in    a    decayed 
177 


WILD    PASTURES 

stump,  but  of  all  places  they  most  love  a 
bird  box  near  a  dwelling,  and,  as  I  had 
hoped,  a  pair  came  early  in  April  to  in- 
spect mine.  They  looked  them  all  over 
appreciatively,  seeming  with  delightful 
courtesy  to  the  builder  to  find  it  hard  to 
choose,  but  finally  settled  upon  one  in 
the  pear  tree,  and  began  to  build. 

Meanwhile  the  yeggs  had  been  watch- 
ing with  jealous  eyes,  lurking  in  the 
shrubbery,  sneaking  about  the  eaves  and 
making  sallies  in  small  numbers  from 
around  the  barn.  The  English  sparrow 
has  been  called  pugnacious.  He  is  noth- 
ing of  the  kind.  He  does  not  love  a 
fight.  Bird  to  bird,  there  is  nothing  too 
small  to  whip  him.  I  have  seen  a  chip- 
ping sparrow,  which  is  the  least  among 
the  pasture  sparrows,  send  the  poltroon 
scurrying  to  shelter  with  all  his  feathers 
standing  on  end.  A  cock  bluebird,  fight- 
178 


RESTING  TIME  OF  THE   BIRDS 

ing  like  a  gentleman,  and  like  a  gentle- 
man fighting  only  when  he  must,  will 
drive  a  half-dozen  of  them.  The  English 
sparrow  has  the  true  instincts  of  the 
browbeating  coward,  and  loves  to  fight 
only  when  in  overwhelming  numbers  he 
may  attack  a  lone  pasture  bird  without 
danger  to  himself. 

So  trouble  began  with  the  building, 
and  for  a  week  or  so  the  warfare  raged 
from  box  to  box,  the  cock  bluebird  boldly 
defeating  superior  numbers  again  and 
again,  only  to  have  his  gentle  wife  an- 
noyed by  other  villains  while  he  drove 
the  first  away,  and  his  nesting  material 
stolen  in  spite  of  him.  Finally  he  re- 
sorted to  what  looked  to  me  .like  well- 
planned  and  carefully  executed  strategy, 
though  it  may  have  been  merely  that 
fortune  which  favors  the  brave  and  per- 
sistent. The  pair  abandoned  the  box  in 
179 


WILD    PASTURES 

the  pear  tree  and  started  building  in  the 
one  nailed  against  the  side  of  the  barn. 
The  sparrows  followed,  of  course.  Then 
the  bluebirds  went  back  to  the  pear-tree 
box.  The  sparrows  followed.  The  blue- 
birds then  started  building  in  the  third 
box  and  daily  brought  material  to  each 
of  the  three,  though  ostensibly,  I  thought, 
to  the  second  and  third.  At  any  rate 
the  sparrows  seemed  to  concentrate  their 
attention  more  on  these  boxes.  Mean- 
while the  bluebirds  quietly  completed  the 
nest  in  the  pear  tree  and  later  laid  their 
eggs  there,  in  comparative  peace. 

The  sparrows  did  not  build  in  either 
of  the  other  boxes.  They  did  not  want 
to.  Neither  did  they  care  particularly 
about  the  material  which  they  stole,  for 
they  did  not  continue  to  take  it  after 
the  bluebirds  had  finished  the  pear-tree 
nest  and  were  in  a  position  to  defend 
180 


r 


The  English  sparrow  has  the  true  instincts  of  the  brow- 
beating coward 


RESTING  TIME  OF  THE   BIRDS 

it.  Their  action  was  simply  hoodlum- 
ism  of  the  lowest  and  most  despicable 
kind. 

This  was  bad  enough,  yet  it  was  merely 
petty  annoyance  compared  to  the  deed 
without  a  name  of  which  they  were  later 
to  be  guilty.  The  two  young  birds  in 
the  bluebird  box  were  more  than  half 
grown.  The  blue  was  beginning  to  show 
in  their  wings  along  with  the  white  of 
the  conspicuous,  growing  quills,  and  the 
fuscous  margin  was  already  touching  the 
breast  feathers.  The  old  birds,  working 
with  tremendous  energy  to  feed  these 
hearty  youngsters,  were  both  busy  and 
often  away  from  the  nest  together. 

At  one  such  time  the  English  spar- 
rows descended  upon  this  nest,  entered, 
drove  the  young  birds  out  to  die  upon 
the  ground,  unnoticed  in  the  long  grass, 
and  started  to  take  full  possession.  The 
181 


WILD    PASTURES 

bluebirds,  returning  too  late,  drove  them 
away  with  more  than  usual  despatch. 
This  first  called  the  affair  to  my  atten- 
tion. But  I  was  too  late. 

The  young  birds  were  dead  and  the 
sparrows  were  chattering  in  raucous 
jubilation  over  it,  now  and  then  giving 
a  squeak  of  fright  or  pain  as  the  male 
bluebird  singled  out  an  individual  and 
attacked  him  with  a  fury  of  which  I 
had  not  believed  him  capable.  Soon, 
however,  he  ceased,  and  the  two  twit- 
tered mournfully  about  the  tree  for 
hours,  again  and  again  poising  in  flut- 
tering flight  before  the  door  of  their  de- 
spoiled home  and  looking  eagerly  in,  as 
if  they  could  not  believe  that  the  young 
were  indeed  gone.  Later  they  went  si- 
lently away.  No  doubt  they  found  an- 
other home  in  some  hollow  tree  of  the 
remote  pasture  and  raised  another  brood. 
182 


RESTING  TIME  OF  THE   BIRDS 

But  my  boxes  have  stood  tenantless  ever 
since. 

The  worst  of  it  is  there  is  little  I 
could  do  either  in  the  way  of  prevention 
or  revenge.  I  did  get  out  my  big  old 
ten-bore  duck  gun,  which  I  have  not  had 
the  heart  to  use  on  a  bird,  even  a  coot, 
for  a  dozen  years,  and  began  cannonad- 
ing the  miscreants,  but  this  was  more 
disturbing  to  the  neighbors  than  to  the 
sparrows. 

One  of  the  gentlest  nature  lovers  I 
ever  knew,  wise  in  bird  ways  and  very 
fond  of  all  birds,  used  to  say  that  he 
wished  all  the  English  sparrows  in  the 
world  had  but  one  neck,  and  that  he 
might  have  that  neck  in  his  hands.  I 
wish  he  might,  too.  '* 

So,  after  weeks  of  absence,  the  blue- 
birds have  come  back.  Their  speckle- 
breasted  young,  which  they  would  have 
183 


WILD    PASTURES 

brought  up  among  my  apple  trees  and 
in  the  cloistered  seclusion  of  the  lilac 
bushes,  have  grown  up  in  the  pasture 
instead,  and  very  likely  their  plans  for 
next  year  will  include  the  pasture  wild- 
apple  tree  rather  than  my  bird  box,  and 
they  are  far  shyer  and  less  responsive 
to  my  advances  than  they  would  have 
been.  Their  song  has  in  it  a  plaint  of 
autumnal  regret.  In  the  spring  they 
sang,  "Cheerily;  cheerily."  Now  they 
say,  "Going  away;  going  away."  It 
has  in  it  something  of  the  quality  of 
"  Lochaber  no  more." 

But  it  is  not  merely  the  bluebirds 
which  have  been  silent  for  some  weeks 
and  are  now  beginning  to  sing  again. 
The  time  between  early  July  and  mid- 
August  is  a  period  of  retirement  for  all 
birddom.  The  mating  season,  with  its 
soul-stirring  ecstasies,  the  labor  of  nest 
184 


RESTING  TIME  OF  THE   BIRDS 

building,  the  anxieties  of  brooding,  have 
been  followed  by  the  tremendous  exer- 
tion of  caring  for  that  nestful  of  young 
birds.  A  healthy  fledgling  will  eat  almost 
his  own  weight  of  food  in  a  day,  and  by 
the  time  he  is  able  to  fly  and  chase  the 
old  birds  around  for  more  the  father  and 
mother  are  worn  to  a  frazzle.  I  really 
believe  the  youngsters  are  weaned  only 
when  their  demand  for  food  becomes  so 
enormous  with  their  completed  growth 
that  the  parents  cease  to  supply  it 
through  sheer  physical  exhaustion. 

I  once  reared  a  pair  of  young  crows 
by  hand,  taking  them  from  the  home  nest 
in  a  big  pine,  leaving  three  others  — 
quite  enough  I  afterward  thought  —  for 
the  parent  birds.  They  were  negroid, 
naked,  pod-bodied  creatures  at  the  time, 
with  long  clutchy  claws,  ridiculous  stubs 
of  wings,  and,  ye  gods,  what  mouths! 

185 


WILD    PASTURES 

When  I  fed  them  I  used  to  clutch  some- 
thing with  one  hand  lest  I  fall  in.  And 
I  was  incessantly  feeding  them.  Anx- 
ious to  treat  them  kindly  and  finding 
that  frogs  were  a  most  acceptable  diet 
to  them  I  depopulated  the  township  of 
Rana  virescens  and  allied  species.  Then 
I  found  that  fish  would  do  about  as  well, 
and  I  fished  until  there  began  to  be  a 
shortage  of  angle-worms  in  the  com- 
munity. Yet  still  the  creatures  grew 
apace  and  demanded  more  food. 

By  and  by  they  got  big  enough  to  use 
their  wings  and,  recognizing  me  as  their 
undoubted  parent,  came  flapping  and 
clawing  after  me  wherever  I  went,  yell- 
ing, "  Caw,  caw,  ca-aw-aw,"  in  most 
heartrending  crescendo.  Then  did  I 
realize  to  the  full  the  responsibility  of 
being  a  father  bird.  StufT  those  clamor- 
ous creatures  as  I  might,  they  still  pleaded 
186 


RESTING  TIME  OF  THE   BIRDS 

in  agonizing  tones  for  more,  and  no  one 
not  cognizant  of  the  facts  would  have 
believed  that  they  were  ever  fed.  The 
lamb  that  loved  Mary  so,  and  followed 
her  also,  was  not  a  circumstance  to  the 
clamorous  devotion  of  those  two  young 
crows  toward  me,  their  foster  parent. 

My  one  fear  for  weeks  was  that  the 
resident  agent  for  the  S.  P.  C.  A.,  who 
was  a  vigilant  and  tender-hearted  lady 
of  undoubted  indiscretion,  would  hear 
their  evidently  unanswered  appeals  and 
proceed  against  me.  She  could  have 
convicted  me  on  the  evidence  in  any  dis- 
trict court  in  Norfolk  County;  and  yet 
those  young  birds  were  eating  everything 
there  was  in  the  place  outside  of  cold 
storage. 

Such  is  the  appetite  of  the  growing 
bird.  Yet  there  comes  a  time  in  the 
passing  of  the  summer  when  the  young- 
187 


WILD    PASTURES 

sters  are  taught,  or  learn  through  ne- 
cessity, to  forage  for  themselves  and 
cease  their  fritinancy.  Then  the  thickets 
are  strangely  silent.  The  youngsters  no 
longer  yearn  noisily  and  they  have  not 
yet  learned  to  sing.  The  old  birds  have 
ceased  singing.  Indeed,  there  is  nothing 
left  of  them  but  their  bones  and  feathers, 
and  that  atmosphere  of  conscious  recti- 
tude which  comes  with  successful  com- 
pletion of  a  noble  and  herculean  task. 
And  then  even  their  feathers  begin  to 
go,  for  the  moulting  season  is  at  hand. 

No  longer  does  the  male  scarlet  tana- 
ger  sit  like  a  lambent  flame  in  the  top 
of  a  tree  and  warble,  "  Look-up,  way-up, 
look-at-me,  tree-top/'  His  scarlet  suit 
begins  to  fade,  grow  dingy,  show  signs 
of  wear,  and  finally  go  all  to  pieces  while 
he  sits  mute  and  dumpy  in  the  shadow. 
By  and  by  the  scarlet  will  have  changed 
188 


RESTING  TIME  OF  THE   BIRDS 

completely  to  a  dull  olive-green,  like  that 
of  his  inconspicuous  mate,  and  though  he 
still  retains  the  black  of  his  wings  and 
tail  you  would  not  know  him. 

So  the  bobolink  who  swung  so  con- 
spicuously on  the  meadow  grass  in  June 
in  his  black  and  white  suit  comes  through 
the  moulting  season  brown  as  a  sparrow. 
The  vivid  blue  of  the  indigo  bunting 
falls, from  him  in  patches  and  is  replaced 
by  grayish  brown  in  a  large  measure. 

No  wonder  that,  utterly  tired  out  and 
their  brilliant  plumage  scattered  and 
changed  to  dull  and  rusty  colors,  the 
birds  are  silent  for  a  time,  waiting  for 
strength  to  recuperate.  Some  of  them 
seem  to  retain  enough  courage  and  vital- 
ity to  sing  mornings  through  the  moult- 
ing season,  notably  the  robins.  I  suspect, 
though,  that  these  faithful  few  —  for  the 
robin  singers  of  the  morning  of  the  first 
189 


WILD    PASTURES 

day  of  August  will  be  as  one  to  twenty 
to  those  of  the  first  day  of  June  —  are 
gay  young  sports  who  did  not  care  to 
marry,  or  who,  disappointed  in  love,  still 
sing  to  keep  their  courage  up.  It  is  the 
best  singers  who  are  most  strangely  silent 
now,  as  they  have  been  for  weeks;  nor 
will  most  of  them  be  heard  until  next 
spring,  hereabouts. 

My  catbird  was  so  sorrowfully  unseen 
and  unheard  that  I  began  to  think  the 
cat  had  got  him,  till  I  hunted  him  up, 
down  the  hill  among  the  scrub  oaks. 
He  was  as  dilapidated  and  passe-looking 
as  his  nest  in  the  lilacs;  as  if,  like  it, 
the  young  birds  had  kicked  him  pretty 
nearly  to  pieces  before  they  got  through 
with  him.  But  he  perked  up  a  bit  when 
he  saw  me,  flipped  an  apology  for  a  tail, 
and  miaued  in  a  manner  that  was  humor- 
ously  unlike  him,  it  was  so  deprecatory. 
190 


RESTING  TIME  OF  THE  BIRDS 

But  that  was  a  week  or  ten  days  ago. 
Yesterday  I  heard  some  bird  cooing  a 
little  song  to  himself  out  in  the  arbor- 
vitse  trees  at  the  foot  of  the  garden,  and 
slipping  quietly  up  found  that  it  was  the 
catbird  again.  Fie  was  quite  sleek  in  his 
new  coat,  and  he  was  practising  his  song 
in  a  delightful  undertone,  as  if  to  be  sure 
that  he  should  not  forget  it  altogether. 

In  four  or  five  weeks  more  he  will 
begin  to  flip  saucily  across  the  miles  of 
country  that  separate  him  from  his  win- 
ter home  in  Southern  Florida,  or  perhaps 
farther  yet  in  some  stretch  of  primeval 
forest  that  I  myself  have  seen  and  loved 
in  the  heart  of  Santo  Domingo.  He  will 
not  sing  his  song  there,  high  on  some 
giant  ceiba  or  swinging  on  the  plume 
of  some  royal  palm.  He  may  not  sing 
it  again  here  on  the  tip  of  the  tallest 
white  lilac  bush,  but  I  know  that,  there 
191 


WILD    PASTURES 

or  here,  he  will  practise  it  now  and  then 
in  that  soft,  sweet  undertone  which  you 
would  not  believe  of  a  catbird,  and  be 
ready  to  send  it  forth  in  jubilant  peals 
when  his  strong  wings  bring  him  back 
again  next  May.  My  bluebirds  may 
winter  with  him;  and  if  they  do  I  have 
hopes  that  he  may  persuade  them  to  try 
my  pear-tree  box  once  more  next  spring. 


192 


THE  POND  AT  LOW  TIDE 


THE   POND  AT  LOW  TIDE 

A.LL  about  the  pond  the  woodland 
folk  are  enjoying  shore  dinners,  for  it 
is  the  time  of  ebb  tide,  and  a  wonder- 
fully low  ebb  at  that.  Not  for  a  score 
of  years  do  I  recall  such  low  water. 
Where,  on  the  ebb  of  ordinary  years,  the 
crow  has  been  able  to  find  one  fresh- 
water clam,  he  may  now  feed  till  he  can 
hold  no  more,  for  the  drought  has  been 
long  and  severe,  and  the  pond  has  been 
drained  to  the  very  dregs. 

I  say  fresh-water  clams,  for  that  is 
the  name  commonly  applied  to  the  crea- 
tures, though  I  know  that  I  might  more 
properly  call  them  river  mussels,  and  if 
I  wished  to  be  severely  scientific  I  should 
say  Unio  margaritifera,  though  it  is  diffi- 


WILD    PASTURES 

cult  to  be  sure  of  your  margaritifera,  as 
there  are  about  fifteen  hundred  species 
of  unios  known  to  people  who  classify 
creatures,  and  most  of  these  are  found 
in  the  rivers  of  this  country. 

Little  do  the  crows  care  for  that.  In 
the  sunny  coves  they  have  their  clam- 
bakes, and  as  I  slip  slyly  up  I  fancy  I 
hear  them  smack  their  mandibles.  As  I 
round  the  screen  of  shore-loving  button 
bushes,  I  know  I  shall  come  upon  them, 
and  I  expect  to  find  them  seated  in 
riotous  fellowship,  with  napkins  spread 
across  broad  waistcoats,  dipping  delicious 
mouthfuls  in  melted  butter  and  tucking 
them  away  behind  the  white  napkins.  I 
have  always  missed  the  napkins  and  the 
butter  dishes,  but  the  shells  are  proof 
enough  of  what  has  been  going  on.  If 
the  mother  crow  carries  the  table  fur- 
nishings away  with  her  when  she  flies, 
196 


THE  POND  AT  LOW  TIDE 

that  is  no  more  than  human  picnickers 
do  when  driven  from  the  sea  beach. 

The  pond  when  full  is  ten  feet  deeper 
than  it  is  now.  In  May  the  water 
lapped  the  forest  roots  on  its  edges;  now 
from  the  forest  to  the  mud  of  the  very 
bottom  where  still  the  water  lingers  a 
strip  of  slanting  beach  stretches  for  a 
hundred  yards.  The  crows  are  not  the 
only  creatures  which  have  made  tracks 
on  this.  Close  by  the  edge  in  the  soft 
mud  the  heron  has  walked  with  dignity, 
leaving  footmarks  that  proceed  precisely. 
The  heron  may  not  have  large  ambitions, 
but  he  is  purposeful  and  does  not  turn 
aside.  The  crows  gurgled  and  ha-haed 
over  their  clambake;  the  heron  takes  his 
fish  course  as  solemnly  as  if  he  were 
taking  the  pledge. 

All  along  you  will  see  where  the  squir- 
rels have  come  down  to  drink,  skipping 
197 


WILD    PASTURES 

vivaciously,  taking  a  sip  here,  bouncing 
away  to  examine  something  there,  re- 
membering that  they  came  for  a  drink 
after  all  and  taking  a  good  one,  then 
hurrying  back  with  long  leaps  in  a 
straight  line  for  the  trees.  The  squirrel 
is  not  solemn,  far  from  it,  but  he  is 
business-like,  and  though  there  is  humor- 
ous good  fellowship  in  his  every  hop,  he 
nevertheless  does  not  linger  long  from 
his  work. 

Very  different  from  this  is  the  track 
of  mister  skunk.  He  wanders  aimlessly 
along,  often  as  much  sidewise  as  straight 
ahead.  The  skunk  does  n't  know  where 
he  is  going  and  he  is  n't  even  on  his 
way.  I  never  see  his  tracks,  whether 
on  the  pond  shore  or  elsewhere,  but  I 
renew  my  doubts  as  to  his  habits.  He 
is  out  much  too  late  at  night.  His  tracks 
show  it.  I  think  he  had  his  drink  before 
198 


The  skunk  does  n't  know  wh,ere  he  is  going  and  he  is  n't  even 
on  his  way 


THE   POND  AT  LOW  TIDE 

he  came  to  the  water.  Probably  he  too 
knows  how  toothsome  are  the  unios  and 
is  searching  for  them  in  his  maudlin 
fashion. 

Then  there  are  the  muskrats.  They 
do  not  have  to  wait  for  their  clam  ban- 
quets till  the  water  is  low.  They  are 
expert  divers  and  gather  the  unios  at 
such  times  as  suit  their  fancy.  You  will 
see  their  tracks  in  regular  runways  in 
the  shallow  water  of  the  muddy  coves, 
whence  they  are  apt  to  follow  some 
trickling  streamlet  to  the  bank  where  the 
summer  burrowrs  are  at  high  water. 

Later,  along  the  marshy  edges  you  will 
find  their  winter  teepees,  piled  to  conical 
heights  with  sods  and  roots,  with  a 
warm  refuge  above  the  ice  and  an  exit 
below,  whence  they  may  swim  in  search 
of  food.  The  tracks  of  the  muskrats 
show  every  mark  of  the  industrious  vil- 
199 


WILD    PASTURES 

lager.  They  stick  close  to  well-traveled 
paths,  and  though  the  muskrats  are  out 
nights  no  one  would  for  a  moment 
question  their  temperance  and  industry. 
Their  characters  are  excellent  ones,  be- 
yond suspicion,  and  their  tracks  show  it. 

On  the  pond  shore  at  ebb  tide  the  gla- 
ciers, too,  have  left  their  tracks,  though 
it  is  probably  several  hundred  thousand 
years  since  any  have  been  this  way. 
Where  there  are  granite  ledges  you  may 
know  that  these  were  here  before  even 
the  glaciers  stalked  solemnly  by,  for 
they  show  where  the  ice  in  grumbling 
grandeur  ground  small  stones  against 
them  and  gradually  wore  out  ruts  in  the 
enduring  granite  by  force  of  attrition. 

The  track  of  the  glacier  is  like  the 
trail  of  the  serpent,  —  it  leaves  no  toe- 
marks,  but  its  sliding  progress  is  unmis- 
takable. Side  by  side  with  the  ledge 
200 


THE  POND  AT  LOW   TIDE 

which  shows  these  striae  you  may  see  on 
the  soft  mud  imprints  of  this  year's 
leaves,  dropped  a  moment  there  by  the 
wind,  then  whirled  away  again,  but 
leaving  their  tracks  behind  them.  This 
mark  of  the  season  may  be  obliterated 
by  a  breath,  or  it  may  be  covered  with 
sifting  silt  and  finally  harden  into  sand- 
stone and  bear  the  trail  of  the  leaf  as 
far  down  the  ages  as  has  come  that  of 
the  glacier.  Here  are  moments  and  aeons 
elbowing  one  another  for  place. 

Other  interesting  records  of  past  time 
may  be  read  in  Stumpy  Cove,  which  is 
still  the  wildest  and  most  secluded  of 
spots,  though  the  trolley  tripper  has  found 
the  pond  and  builds  his  bungalows  on  its 
shore,  sinks  his  tin  cans  in  its  waters, 
and  scares  the  bullfrogs  with  his  phono- 
graph. The  tin  cans  will  not  last  long, 
however.  Fresh  water  in  motion  is  con- 
201 


WILD    PASTURES 

tinually  giving  up  oxygen,  and  this  with 
the  humic  acid  of  the  mud  bottom  will 
soon  scatter  these  disfigurations  in  scales 
of  brown  oxide.  But  all  these  solvent 
forces,  acting  through  two  centuries, 
have  had  little  effect  on  the  stumps  of 
Stumpy  Cove. 

The  heart-wood  is  still  sound,  their 
interlaced  roots  tell  the  story  of  what 
happened  on  the  spot  in  the  rich  muck 
of  the  swamp,  as  Stumpy  Cove  was 
then,  before  Myles  Standish  had  set  foot 
on  Plymouth  Rock  or  the  first  white 
man  had  spied  inland  from  the  summit 
of  Blue  Hill.  For  the  pond  as  it  is  now 
is  only  about  a  hundred  years  old.  For 
a  hundred  years  before  that  it  was  a 
meadow,  flowed  occasionally  by  the 
farmers  of  the  region  about  it. 

Before  that  Stumpy  Cove  was  a  great 
white-cedar  swamp  and  the  great  white 
202 


THE  POND  AT  LOW  TIDE 

cedars  stood  in  it,  two  feet  in  diameter, 
their  clean  straight  trunks  running  up 
fifty  feet  or  more  without  a  knob  or 
limb.  This  natural  meadow  with  hay 
for  their  cattle  for  the  cutting,  these 
cedar  swamps  with  their  century-old 
growth,  were  what  attracted  the  first 
settlers  to  this  region,  and  hardly  had 
the  dawn  of  the  sixteenth  century  come 
over  the  Blue  Hills  before  their  axes 
were  at  work  in  Stumpy  Cove  and  simi- 
lar swamps  all  about,  getting  out  shingle 
stuff  for  the  Boston  market.  But 
whereas  in  all  the  other  swamps  the 
young  cedars  were  allowed  to  grow  in 
again  for  succeeding  generations  of 
woodsmen,  here  new  conditions  arose. 

The  meadow  was  flowed  intermittently 

for  a  century;    then  the  pond  grew  out 

of  it.     Not  only  might  no  seedlings  find 

roothold  there,  but  the  very  black  muck 

203 


WILD    PASTURES 

in  which  they  might  grow  was  washed 
away  from  the  roots  of  the  great 
stumps.  These,  in  the  main,  have  en- 
dured, losing  their  bark  and  sap-wood, 
but  with  the  heart-wood  still  firm  after 
the  lapse  of  two  centuries. 

Here  at  this  ebb  tide  I  read  the  rec- 
ord of  growth  of  trees  that  had  their 
beginnings  more  than  three  centuries  ago. 
These  roots  so  twine  and  intertwine 
that  the  original  sap,  drawn  from  the 
tender  tips,  must  have  nourished  any 
one  of  several  trees  indifferently,  for 
heart-wood  joins  heart-wood  in  scores  of 
places  near  the  stump  and  far  from  it, 
showing  that  each  tree  stood  not  only 
on  its  own  roots,  but  on  those  of  its 
neighbors  all  about  it;  not  only  was  it 
nourished  by  its  own  rootlets,  but  by 
those  of  trees  near  by.  No  gale  could 
uproot  these  swamp  cedars.  United  they 
204 


THE   POND   AT  LOW  TIDE 

stood  and  divided  they  might  not  fall. 
It  is  a  curious  method  of  growth,  and 
I  dare  say  it  obtains  in  many  swamps 
where  the  white  cedars  stand  close,  but 
under  no  other  circumstances  could  it 
have  been  revealed  to  me,  casually  stroll- 
ing that  way  three  centuries  after  it 
happened. 

At  high  water  all  these  curious  roots 
are  submerged  and  you  see  only  the 
butts  of  the  trees,  numerous  miniature 
islands  on  which  many  an  alien  growth 
has  made  port.  Here  in  June  the  dour 
and.  melancholy  cassandra  disputes  the 
footing  of  the  wild  rose,  and  the  huckle- 
berry and  sweet-fern  twine  in  loving 
companionship,  afloat  as  ashore.  Here  in- 
tertwine the  sheep  laurel  and  the  hard- 
hack,  the  meadow-sweet  and  the  marsh 
St.  John's-wort,  garlanding  the  white 
skeletons  of  the  ancient  trees  and  mak- 
205 


WILD    PASTURES 

ing  them  young  again  with  the  odorous 
promises  of  spring. 

,  In  midsummer,  among  patches  of 
green  and  gray  moss,  you  will  find  tiny, 
diamond-like  globules  glistening.  These 
are  the  clear,  dew-like  drops  of  glu- 
tinous liquid  which  gem  the  leaves  of  the 
Drosera,  northern  representative  of  the 
Venus's  fly-trap.  This,  the  Dionaea, 
catches  flies  by  means  of  a  steel-trap 
leaf  which  closes  on  them  when  they 
light  on  it.  This  other,  the  Drosera,  is 
not  so  active.  It  attracts  insects  with 
its  honey  dew,  holds  them  with  sticky 
glands,  and  grips  them,  little  by  little, 
with  bristles.  It  is  a  curious  and  beau- 
tiful little  plant,  and  one  would  hardly 
think  it  carnivorous  to  see  it  adding  its 
diamond  ornaments  to  the  floral  decora- 
tions which  beautify  the  ancient  stumps 
all  summer  long. 

206 


THE  POND  AT  LOW  TIDE 

Yet  of  all  the  life  histories  revealed 
by  the  pond  at  low  tide  I  still  think  that 
of  the  Uniondce  the  most  interesting. 
You  find  them  all  along  above  and  below 
the  margin  of  the  shallow  water,  their 
shells  most  wonderfully  streaked  with 
olive-green  and  pale-yellow  in  alternate 
bands,  till  one  might  think  he  had  found 
nodules  of  malachite  which  the  long-ago 
glacier  had  culled  from  some  Labrador 
ledge  and  ground  to  unsymmetrical  ovoids 
before  it  dropped  them  on  the  old-time 
meadow  marge.  In  certain  individuals 
and  certain  lights  the  shells  of  these  ob- 
scure creatures  send  out  gleams  of  green 
and  gold,  like  gems  that  have  soft  fires 
within  them.  It  is  as  if  an  opalescent 
soul  dwelt  within,  and  the  thin  shell 
which  a  crow  with  his  bill  may  puncture 
with  a  blow  was  so  constructed  as  to 
hold  in  the  reds  and  blues  of  the  opa- 
207 


WILD    PASTURES 

lescence,    but    transmit    the    greens    and 
gold. 

You  find  many  with  only  the  backs 
of  their  shells  sticking  out  of  the  mud. 
This  may  be  the  creature's  natural  posi- 
tion, but  I  find  far  more  of  them  lying 
quietly  on  their  sides  in  the  shallow  water, 
rocking  gently  to  and  fro  in  the  placid 
undulations  as  if  they  were  there  but  to 
show  me  their  shining  colors.  But  if 
you  watch  one  intently  for  a  time  you 
will  see  him  open  his  shell  cautiously 
and  put  out  one  foot.  This  is  his  best, 
for  it  is  all  he  has  and  he  puts  it  fore- 
most. It  is  very  white  and  clean,  and 
it  might  as  well  be  called  his  tongue,  for 
with  it  he  licks  his  food.  It  is  half  as 
long  as  he  is,  and  when  he  has  put  it 
out  as  far  as  he  can,  or  as  far  as  he 
dares,  a  fine  white  fringe  grows  on  its 
outer  margin.  Thus  he  gathers  in  mi- 
208 


THE  POND  AT  LOW  TIDE 

nute  animalculae  or  refuse  matter  from 
the  surface  of  the  mud,  for  his  stomach's 
sake. 

It  is  a  rather  interesting  thing  to 
stand  by  and  watch  a  Unio  margariti- 
fera  daintily  putting  away  his  own  par- 
ticular brand  of  little  necks  and  mock 
turtle.  At  the  least  untoward  sign  of 
interest  in  the  affair,  however,  he  shuts 
up  like  a  clam,  and  you  will  need  your 
pocket-knife  if  you  wish  to  see  more  of 
him. 

Where  the  water  is  only  an  inch  deep 
or  so  over  the  soft  ooze  of  the  bottom 
you  will  see  where  the  unio  has  used 
this  so-called  foot  as  a  foot  should  be 
used,  for  he  not  only  stands  on  it,  but 
walks  with  its  help.  These  signs  are 
curiously  erratic  marks  drawn  as  with  a 
sharpened  stick  for  a  distance  sometimes 
of  yards.  If  you  will  inspect  the  sea- 
209 


WILD    PASTURES 

ward  end  of  this  trail  you  will  find  a 
unio  in  it,  generally  a  young  one,  for  it 
is  he  that  has  left  the  mark  behind  him 
in  his  travels.  For  the  unio  at  a  certain 
age  is  a  great  traveller;  that  is,  when 
he  is  very  young.  The  adults  foot  it, 
but  the  young  before  they  reach  their 
full  growth  ride,  some  of  them  by  what 
you  might  call  the  lightning  expresses  of 
the  pond  world. 

If  you  will  split  a  big  one  at  this  time 
of  year  you  will  be  likely  to  find  within 
an  astonishing  number  of  eggs.  These 
are  carried  in  brood  pouches  that  seem 
to  occupy  pretty  nearly  all  the  space  be- 
tween the  shells.  In  seeing  them  you 
wonder  vaguely  where  there  was  room 
for  the  bearer  of  this  amazing  progeny. 
Just  where  they  are  these  young  unios 
grow  to  maturity  of  a  certain  sort, 
forming  minute  shells  which  have  hooks, 
210 


THE  POND  AT  LOW  TIDE 

forming  also  peculiar  organs  of  sense. 
The  hooks  and  the  sense  organs  are 
provided  that  they  may  not  miss  that 
free  ride  which  is  the  privilege  of  every 
young  unio  if  he  is  to  reach  the  period 
of  adolescence. 

At  the  moment  of  being  sent  forth 
from  the  home  shell  the  golchidium,  for 
that  is  what  the  scientific  men  call  the 
unio  at  this  stage  of  the  affair,  begins 
to  hunt,  aided  by  his  sense  organs,  for 
a  thoroughfare.  Here  he  takes  the  first 
conveyance,  whether  the  slow  coach  of 
the  sluggish  hornpout,  the  bream  auto- 
mobile, or  the  pickerel  flying-machine. 
To  the  first  fish  that  comes  by  he  at- 
taches himself,  oftentimes  to  the  gills, 
and  there  he  rides  and,  like  most  trav- 

0 

elers,  continues  to  develop. 

By  and  by,  being  "  finished  "  by  travel, 
he  gets  off  his  vehicle  at  some  convenient 

211 


WILD    PASTURES 

station,  drops  into  the  mud,  and  is  ready 
to  lecture,  or  so  I  fancy  it,  before  any 
of  the  unio  women's  clubs  on  the  world 
as  he  has  seen  it.  Not  until  then  does 
the  unio,  and  then  only  if  he  is  a  mar- 
garitifera,  begin  to  accumulate  pearls. 

By  what  mystery  of  sunlight  and  shal- 
low water  the  unio  has  acquired  the  lucent 
green  and  gold  of  the  epidermis  of  his 
outer  shell  I  do  not  know,  any  more 
than  I  know  what  pigments  paint  or 
what  naiad  fingers  hold  the  brush  that 
paints  the  gold  in  the  heart  or  the  pinky 
green  in  the  outer  sepals  of  the  water- 
lily.  The  two  find  their  sustenance  in 
the  same  mud. 

But  even  if  I  could  tell  this  I  might 
well  pause  in  wonder  over  the  beauty  of 
the  inner  shell  of  this  pulseless  creature 
of  the  ooze.  Perhaps  the  golchidium, 
darting  back  and  forth  beneath  the  rip- 

212 


THE  POND  AT  LOW   TIDE 

pies  of  the  surface  during  its  days  of 
travel,  catches  the  radiant  blue  of  the  sky, 
the  rosy  flush  of  dawn,  and  the  glory  of 
the  rainbow  all  shivered  together  in  ex- 
ultant light  to  make  the  nacre  of  the 
inner  surface  of  its  growing  shell.  For 
nowhere  else  in  nature  may  we  find  such 
softness  of  coloring  holding  such  gleams 
of  azure  and  of  fire.  The  opal  beside  it 
is  garish  and  crude.  Mother-of-pearl  we 
call  it,  for  out  of  the  same  source  is 
born  the  gem  which  may  be  worth  the 
price  of  a  king's  ransom. 

The  unio  is  the  good  girl  of  the  fairy 
tale,  for  from  its  lips  fall  pearls  that 
confound  the  divers  of  the  Orient.  Not 
from  Ceylon  nor  Sulu  nor  the  Straits  of 
Sunda  nor  the  Gulf  of  California  have 
come  such  pearls  of  bewildering  color 
and  fascinating  shapes  as  have  been 
taken  from  the  river  mussels  of  our 
213 


WILD    PASTURES 

American  streams.  For  all  I  know  the 
shallows  of  my  pond  may  hold  a  neck- 
lace of  such  value  that  its  fellow  has 
never  yet  circled  the  throat  of  a  queen. 
If  so  I  hope  no  one  will  ever  find  it  out, 
for  an  ebb  tide  such  as  this  comes  only 
once  in  a  score  or  so  of  years,  and  when 
the  next  one  is  here  I  want  still  to  find 
the  beach  beautiful  with  the  green  and 
gold  and  mother-of-pearl  of  the  unios. 


214 


HOW    THE    RAIN    CAME 


HOW   THE    RAIN    CAME 

1  HE  Spirant hes  gracilis  is  commonly 
called  ladies'  tresses,  which  is  a  very 
polite  name  for  it,  for  nothing  can  be 
more  beautiful  than  the  tresses  of  ladies. 
It  is  like  its  name  in  that  it  is  beauti- 
ful, but  not  otherwise,  for  it  is  a  flower 
not  of  tresses,  but  of  fine  eyelashes  of 
pearl  set  in  a  spiral  on  jade.  The  rain 
this  morning  dropped  transparent,  color- 
less pearl  tears  on  the  tips  of  these  eye- 
lashes, and  as  they  twinkled  toward  shy 
smiles  the  tears  ran  down  the  spiral  to 
be  eagerly  kissed  away  by  the  small 
grasses  that  always  cling  about  the  feet 
of  the  spiranthes  in  mute  adoration. 

Near  by  slender  varieties  of  gerardia 
held  up   rosy  cups  to   drink  these  clear 
217 


WILD    PASTURES 

pearls,  finding  in  them  a  medicine  that 
shall  cure  all  ills.  In  the  rain  the  foun- 
tain of  youth  wells  up  in  the  cup  of 
every  flower  that  waits  in  the  soft  pas- 
ture grasses  and  the  grasses  themselves 
drink  eagerly.  The  cedars  deck  them- 
selves in  these  clear  pearls,  wearing 
garments  fringed  with  them  and  ropes 
and  necklaces  without  number,  and  let- 
ting their  prim  propriety  be  so  softened 
that  they  are  no  longer  firm  and  erect 
but  take  on  curves  of  soft  roundness 
that  should  go  with  pearl-embroidered 
garments. 

Yesterday  there  was  in  all  the  pasture 
people  a  certain  puritanical  sternness  of 
demeanor,  a  set  holding  fast  to  the  nar- 
rowing good  of  life,  a  tightening  of  the 
muscles  that  are  weary  with  a  long 
strain  but  may  not  for  the  good  of  the 
soul  loose  their  firm  grip,  for  yesterday 
218 


HOW  THE  RAIN   CAME 

the  pasture  was  dry  and  hard  with  the 
leanness  of  the  long  summer  drought. 

To-day  has  come  the  first  of  the  fall 
rains  and  these  puritans  are  stern  and 
set  no  longer,  but  relax  into  swaying 
curves  of  lissome  beauty  that  entrance 
you.  It  is  as  if,  after  coming  as  you 
thought  to  a  Sunday  service  of  the  old 
Calvinists,  you  found  it  transformed  into 
a  grange  picnic  of  wood  nymphs. 

The  pines  indeed,  which  always  stretch 
out  their  arms  in  Sabbath-like  benedic- 
tion, seem  asking  a  pious  blessing  on  all 
these,  their  pasture  children;  and  they 
fold  their  slim  leaves  together  like  hands 
in  a  soft  prayer  of  thankfulness.  But 
the  soft  rain  cuddles  them  as  well,  and 
before  they  know  it  they  are  decked  with 
the  clear  pearls  as  for  a  bridal  and  their 
plumes  nod  in  reverence,  yet  are  so 
beautiful  in  gems  and  there  is  such  a 
219 


WILD    PASTURES 

soft  grace  in  their  curves  —  they  that 
stood  so  grim  and  sombre  before  —  that 
each  tree  seems  like  some  bounteous  and 
beautiful  woman,  arrayed  for  wedding 
festivities,  who  yet  bows  a  moment  at 
a  sanctuary  in  prayer,  even  as  she  joins 
the  guests. 

The  rain  had  been  long  coming.  A 
solitary  quail  predicted  it;  the  first  I 
have  heard  since  the  severe  cold  and 
deep  snows  of  three  winters  in  succes- 
sion not  long  ago.  I  had  thought  every 
quail  smothered  in  the  white  depths  or 
frozen  by  the  bitter  cold.  Three  years 
is  a  long  time  not  to  hear  a  quail 
whistle,  and  this  I  believe  to  be  no  sur- 
vivor of  the  old  stock,  but  one  that  has 
worked  up  from  Southern  fields  where 
the  snows  were  less  deadly  during  those 
rigid  winters. 

It    is    pretty    hard    to    tell    whether    a 

220 


HOW  THE  RAIN   CAME 

quail  is  simply  announcing  his  own  name 
for  all  who  care  to  hear,  or  making  a 
weather  prediction.  Jotham,  one  of  the 
farmer's  men  who  knows  all,  says  it  is 
simple  enough.  In  an  announcement  he 
says,  "  Bob,  Bob  White."  The  weather 
prediction  is  different.  Then  he  says, 
"  Wet,  more  wet."  All  you  have  to  do 
is  listen. 

This  is  like  Jotham's  grandmother's 
recipe  for  making  soap.  You  collected 
potash  from  the  hearth,  added  water  in 
an  iron  kettle,  and  bciled  till  a  certain 
thickness  was  reached.  You  would  know 
this  point  by  placing  an  egg  on  the  sur- 
face, and  if  the  concoction  was  right  the 
egg  would  either  sink  or  swim,  the  old 
lady  was  blessed  if  she  could  remember 
which.  This  is  a  way  that  successful 
oracles  have.  That  one  at  Delphos 
did  it. 

221 


WILD    PASTURES 

So,  when  my  lone  quail  sat  on  a  rock 
in  the  pasture,  tipped  his  head  back  a 
little,  swelled  his  white  throat  and 
whistled,  round  and  clear,  I  went  out 
to  meet  him,  scanning  the  sky  meanwhile 
for  a  change  of  weather.  The  sky  of 
the  day  before  had  been  like  a  brass 
bowl  shut  down  over  the  gasping  land. 
Shrubs  of  the  upland  hung  their  leaves 
piteously,  the  tougher  herbs  wilted,  and 
the  tenderer  ones  dried  up  and  died. 

On  such  days  when  the  long  summer 
drought  has  wreaked  its  worst,  when  the 
parched  pasture  lies  on  its  back,  open- 
mouthed,  gasping  for  water,  when  even 
the  pond  which  has  given  so  freely  for 
the  refreshment  of  the  pasture  people 
has  shrunk  back  upon  itself  till  a  rod- 
wide  rim  of  gravel  and  rough  stones 
forbids  them  to  come  down  and  drink,  I 
love  to  go  down  to  the  water's  edge  and 

222 


My  lone  quail  sat  on  a  rock  in  the  pasture,  tipped  his  head  back 
a  little,  swelled  his  white  throat,  and  whistled 


HOW  THE  RAIN   CAME 

marvel  at  the  hedge  hyssop.  All  along 
the  shore  the  summer  drought  forbids 
the  water-weeds  to  grow.  This  rod-wide 
space  is  not  for  them.  The  flood  of  the 
winter  and  spring  denies  other  land 
plants  a  roothold;  yet,  just  when  you 
think  the  shore  is  to  be  bare  and  barren 
for  always,  troops  forth  the  hedge  hys- 
sop and  clothes  it  with  verdure,  lighted 
with  a  golden  smile. 

The  common  name  of  the  plant  seems 
to  me  to  express  ingenuity  rather  than 
purpose.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with 
hedges  and  is  not  a  hyssop,  which  is  a 
garden  plant  belonging  with  thyme  and 
lavender  and  other  sweet  herbs  beloved 
of  old  ladies  in  kerchief  caps  and  figured 
gowns.  The  hedge  hyssop  is  none  of 
these.  Nine  months  of  the  twelve  it 
bides  its  time  under  water.  During  the 
other  three  it  glo\vs  in  golden  content- 
223 


WILD    PASTURES 

ment  on  the  sandy  stretches  left  bare  by 
this  yearly  receding  tide,  climbing  along 
the  rocky  shore  and  filling  every  crevice, 
lifting  its  yellow  cups  to  the  glare  of  the 
brazen  sky  and  distilling  subtle  perfume 
to  the  antennae  of  the  little  low-flying 
insects  that  are  its  friends.  Yet  if  its 
common  name  means  little,  that  given  it 
by  the  botanists  fits.  Gratiola  aurea  may 
well  mean  a  plant  that  is  golden  grace 
or  a  golden  benediction,  as  you  choose 
to  take  the  Latin. 

The  day  before,  then,  I  had  no  heart 
for  the  upland  pasture,  but  Jotham's 
reading  of  the  quail  had  been  the  right 
one,  for  yesterday  the  brazen  look  was 
all  blown  out  of  the  sky  by  the  south 
wind.  It  did  not  leave  it  clear  blue,  for 
that  would  have  meant  cooler  and  still 
dry,  but  put  into  it  a  pallor  that  seemed 
to  well  up  from  all  the  horizon  round. 
224 


HOW  THE  RAIN  CAME 

It  was  not  the  pallor  of  clouds,  for  there 
was  not  even  a  cumulus  thunder  head 
in  sight,  but  the  pallor  that  comes  with 
the  wind  that  has  a  storm  behind  it,  yet 
is  to  blow  itself  out  before  the  storm 
arrives. 

The  cuckoo,  flitting,  jerkily  from  one 
thicket  to  the  next,  noted  this  pallor 
from  the  corner  of  his  eye  and  thence- 
forth through  the  day  croaked  to  him- 
self as  he  went  his  caterpillar-hunting 
rounds.  "  Clackity  clack;  tut,  tut;  cow, 
cow,  cow,"  he  clucked  musically,  which 
is  his  way  of  saying,  "  Oh  dear,  it  is 
going  to  rain  and  the  caterpillars  will 
be  all  soggy."  Jotham  says  the  early 
settlers  out  here  in  the  Dorchester  back- 
woods taught  the  cuckoo  to  work  for 
them,  but  that  he  was  so  lazy  that  their 
descendants,  getting  better  help,  gave  it 
up,  and  that  the  cuckoo  soon  forgot  all 
225 


WILD    PASTURES 

he  knew  about  farm  work  except  calling 
the  cows. 

Every  blue  jay  is  a  born  tease,  and  in 
the  late  August  drought  goes  about  cry- 
ing "  Rain,  rain,"  because  he  knows  there 
will  be  no  rain.  He  does  it  merely  to 
fool  the  pasture  people  and  then  chuckle 
in  his  phonograph  twang  over  their 
misery  when  no  rain  comes. 

Yesterday  when  he  smelt  the  south 
wind  and  saw  that  sky  pallor  he  stopped 
calling  "  Rain,  rain,"  for  he  knew  it  was 
coming.  Instead  he  fluttered  round  and 
round  the  pasture,  ducking  in  among  the 
boughs  of  the  pines  and  ejaculating,  as 
if  he  were  surprised  to  find  it  so,  "  Clear, 
clear."  I  fancy  all  the  wild  creatures 
of  wood  and  pasture  know  the  signs 
better  than  I  do  and  could  announce  the 
rain  if  they  would  long  before  I  know 
that  it  is  coming.  All  the  outdoor  world 
226 


HOW  THE  RAIN   CAME 

was  sure  of  it  yesterday.  With  the  very 
first  show  of  that  paleness  in  the  sky  — 
or  was  it  something  in  the  touch  of  the 
wind  ?  —  the  drooping  plants  lifted  their 
leaves  to  be  ready  for  it.  I  could  smell 
it  in  the  falling  of  the  wind  at  sunset; 
they  seemed  to  smell  it  in  mid-forenoon 
while  yet  the  wind  was  rising. 

On  such  days  looking  across  the  pond 
toward  wind  and  sun  there  is  a  peculiar 
blink  in  the  light  reflected  from  the  sur- 
face of  the  waves  which  you  do  not  see 
if  fair  weather  is  ahead  of  you.  The 
pale  sky  seems  to  reflect  blackly  in  the 
water.  Down  to  leeward  the  shore  pop- 
lars stand  silvery  white,  a  quivering, 
flashing  silver  under  the  lash  of  the 
wind.  The  swamp  maples  lose  their 
green  and  turn  pale  and  the  willows 
lighten  up  in  color. 

It  is  the  turning  of  the  leaves  in  the 
227 


WILD    PASTURES 

wind.  You  may  say  that  they  would 
turn  in  any  wind  and  show  their  lighter 
under  sides,  and  this  is  true,  yet  there 
is  a  difference  in  the  appearance  when 
it  is  a  rain-bringing  wind.  I  cannot  tell 
you  why  this  should  be,  but  the  differ- 
ence is  there.  It  may  be  that  a  moist 
wind  relaxes  the  tension  of  the  petioles 
more  than  a  dry  one  and  thus  lets  the 
leaf  lie  flatter,  giving  a  little  different 
look  to  the  tree  as  a  whole.  The 
weather-wise  older  people  grew  up  on 
the  land  instead  of  within  walls  and 
they  were  wont  to  say,  "  The  leaves  are 
turning  in  the  wind  and  it  is  going  to 
rain."  Like  the  pasture  people  they 
knew. 

By  nightfall  the  weather  bureau  sus- 
pected something  but  was  not  quite  sure 
what.      They    hung    out    the    "  possible 
rain  "  flag,  and  all  the  crows  in  the  pine- 
228 


HOW  THE  RAIN   CAME 

wood,  congregating  now  in  bigger  and 
bigger  flocks,  practising,  I  take  it,  for 
their  labor-day  parade,  went  into  fits 
of  laughter.  "  Haw,  haw,  haw !  "  they 
shouted,  and  whirled  up  into  the  sky 
and  took  a  look  about  and  dashed  down 
again,  convulsed.  "  Haw,  haw,  haw ! 
Possible  rain ;  here  's  the  sky  just  ready 
to  spill  out  a  twenty- four  hour  soaker!" 
The  wind  went  down  with  the  -sun, 
and  the  willow  and  maple  leaves  were 
green  again  for  a  little  before  they 
faded  into  the  growing  purple  of  the 
dusk,  but  with  every  faint  sigh  of  the 
failing  breeze  the  poplars  loomed  white 
again  with  a  radiant  ghostliness  which 
seemed  to  people  the  rustling  dusk  with 
softly  phosphorescent  spooks.  You  will 
see  these  other-world  visitors  to  the 
pond  shore  only  on  such  a  night  when 
the  wind  is  right. 

229 


WILD    PASTURES 

There  was  no  glow  of  rich  color  in 
the  sky  at  sunset.  Instead  the  dusk 
hung  violet  gray  draperies  all  about  the 
horizon,  —  curtains  that  veiled  but  did 
not  hide  the  evening  stars,  shutting  them 
almost  out  near  the  horizon  and  leaving 
them  comparatively  clear  at  the  zenith. 
In  such  dusk  stars  do  not  twinkle,  they 
blink,  and  that  is  a  sign  of  rain  which 
all  the  pasture  people  that  have  eyes 
know  well. 

Those  that  have  ears  and  no  eyes  may 
know  what  sort  of  a  night  it  is  as  well, 
for  there  is  some  quality  in  such  an  at- 
mosphere which  makes  sounds  carry  far. 
The  rap  of  a  paddle  on  a  canoe  seat  a 
mile  away  up  the  pond  sounds  right  in 
your  ear.  A  train  roaring  through  the 
wood  three  miles  distant  seems  so  near 
that  you  involuntarily  look  around  lest 
it  be  coming  behind  and  run  over  you. 
230 


HOW  THE  RAIN  CAME 

On  such  nights  speak  low  if  you  do  not 
wish  the  whole  world  to  hear,  for  the 
air  all  about  you  is  a  wireless  telephone 
receiver  tuned  to  your  pitch.  Those 
gray  rain  curtains  which  the  dusk  has 
hung  all  about  the  horizon  have  made 
the  whole  world  a  whispering  gallery. 

Sometime  in  the  night  the  wind  dies. 
It  passes  away  so  peacefully  that  no 
mirror  held  to  its  lips  would  note  that 
last  sigh.  But  the  stars  have  known  it 
all  the  evening,  and  that  is  why  their 
eyes  blinked  so.  It  was  to  keep  back 
the  tears.  Then  the  stars  vanish  and  the 
night  is  dark  indeed. 

Scents  carry  far  on  such  a  night,  not 
only  those  of  the  pasture  world,  which 
are  pleasant,  but  those  of  the  more  dis- 
tant town,  which  sometimes  are  not. 
The  air  is  not  only  telephonic  but  tele- 
fumic.  The  distant  leather  factory  sends 
231 


WILD    PASTURES 

out  a  faint  but  characteristic  odor  by 
which  you  might  hunt  it  across  country 
for  a  lustrum  of  miles.  The  sooty 
emanation  from  my  neighbors'  chimneys 
is  pungent  in  my  nostrils,  though  their 
houses  are  a  mile  away.  I  think  I  can 
tell  which  is  which,  for  the  fireplace 
smell  differs  from  that  of  the  furnace, 
as  does  that  of  the  parlor  stove  from  the 
range.  Agreeably  these  are  forgotten, 
for  something  has  crushed  sassafras 
leaves  over  on  the  pasture  knoll  and  the 
fine  fragrance  comes  to  drive  away 
thoughts  of  the  others. 

As  the  night  was  gray,  which  foretells 
rain,  so  the  morning  breaks  crimson, 
which  announces  it.  No  bird  heralds 
this  dawn,  no  chirping  insect  sends  its 
voice  questing  through  its  shades.  The 
sky  hardly  lightens  up;  it  is  rather  that 
the  darkness  turns  red.  Nor  does  the 
232 


HOW  THE  RAIN   CAME 

light  come  from  the  sky  when  it  does 
come.  It  wells  up  from  the  earth  in- 
stead, for  when  the  crimson  is  gone  the 
sky  is  still  black  with  shadows,  while  the 
pasture  grows  distinct  in  a  gray  outline 
wherein  is  no  color. 

A  stillness  of  expectation  broods  all 
things,  —  a  stillness  so  intense  that  the 
first  rain-drop  sounds  like  a  pistol-shot 
as  it  strikes  a  leaf  near  you.  Then 
there  is  a  volley  and  further  silence  for 
a  brief  space,  followed  by  a  crepitation 
all  about  you.  Those  first  heavy  drops 
have  been  followed  by  lighter  ones,  and 
this  crepitation  merges  into  a  steady 
drumming,  which  becomes  a  low  roar 
to  your  ears  made  sensitive  by  silence 
and  faint  sounds.  The  first  of  the  fall 
rains  has  come,  and  the  summer  suffer- 
ing of  the  pasture  people  is  at  an  end. 


233 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Adder,  flat-head,  128,  129 
Admiral,  white,  71,  72,  75,  78, 

81 

Alder,  5,  15,  40,  52,  82,  94, 
108,  in,  112,  118,  140, 
141,  158 

black,  139 

white,  35 

Alice-in-Wonderland,  88 
Ambergris,  40 

Angle- worm,  94,  105,  106,  186 
Ant,  158 

Antiopa  vanessa,  166 
Aphids,  115 
Arabian  days,  81 
Arabian  Nights,  6 1,  79,  88 
Arethusa,  83 
Azalia,  4,  6,  33 

B 

Bagdad,  Caliph  of,  76 

Baptist,  53 

Barberry,  32 

Basilarchia  astyanax,  71,  77, 

79,  87 

Basilarchia  disippus,  161 
Bass,  rock,  96 
Bayberry,  8,  33,  45 


666,85,86,137,155,156,157, 

158 

bumble,  137 
Beetles,  161 
Berkshire  hills,  135 
Birch,  5,  8,  28,  29,  30,  93 
Bittern,  142,  143 
Blackberry,  56 

high-bush,  33 
Blackbird,  143 
Bladderwort,  64 
Blueberry,  high-bush,  50,  51 
Bluebird,  175  176,   177,  178, 

179,  180,  181,  182,  184,  192 
Blue  Hill,  135,  140,  202,  203 
Blue    Hill    Reservation,    80, 

136 

Blue  jay,  226 
Bobolink,  189 
Brake,  43 
Bream,  211 
Bullhead,  101 
Bulrush,  136,  138 
Bunting,  indigo,  189 
Butterfly,  angle-wing,  158 
Anosia    plexippus,    160, 

165 

Antiopa  vanessa,  166 
frittelaries,  159 
meadow-brown,  158 


237 


INDEX 


Butterfly,  monarch,  160,  161, 

162,   171 

mourning  cloak,  166 
pearl  crescent,  158 
white    admiral,    71,    72, 

75,  78,  81 
Button-bush,  41,  140 


California,  Gulf  of,  213 
Calvinists,  219 
Camberwell  beauty,  166 
Carnations,  156 
Cassandra,  52,  205 
Cassius,  155 
Catbird,  10,  14,  20,  21,  22,  23, 

190,  191,  192 
Caterpillar,  43 
Cedar,  4,  5,  6,  15,  27,  29,  139, 

140,  141,  202,  2O4,    205,   2l8 

Ceylon,  213 

Chewink,  14 

Clams,  fresh-water,  95,  196 

Clethra,  4,  35,  153,  155,  156 

Compositae,  41 

Coot,  183 

Corydalis  cornuta,  125 

Cranberries,  139 

Crow,  14,  18,  19,  20,  185,  187, 

196,  197,  228 
Cuckoo,  27,  225 


Daisy,  41 
Delphos,  221 


Demoiselles,    120,    121,    122, 

124,  126,  127 
Dionaea,  206 

Dorchester  backwoods,  225 
Dragon,  128,  129 
Dragon-flies,  56,  95,  120,  121, 

122,  123 
Drosera,  206 
Duck,  wood,   144,   145,   146, 

149,  150 


Eel,  103,  104,  1 06,  107,  108, 

127 

Eden,  127 
Elm,  51 


Fern,  40,  112,  119 

cinnamon,  112,  113 
ostrich-plume,  118 
rock,  118,  119 

Fern  seed,  in,  113.  116,  119 

Field  mouse,  113 

Finches,  10 

Flag,  sweet,  117 

Flagroot,  in 

Flappers,  144 

Flea,  56 

Floating-heart,  133,  135 

Florida,  191 

Fly-catcher,  great  crested,  86, 
87,  88 

Flicker,  177 

Fountain  head,  81 


238 


INDEX 


Fox,  6,  9,  13 
Franklin  Field,  142 
Frog,  57,  59>  61,  66,  186 

green,  42 

Rana  virescens,  186 


Gall,  115 

Genie,  76,  88 

Gentian,  134 

Gerardia,  217 

Goblin,  water,  119,  120,  122, 

I25 

Golchidium,  211,  212 
Goldthread,  15 
Grape,  fox,  44,  45,  46 

wild,  5 
Grass,  fresh-water  eel,  136 

marsh,  138,  139,  141 

tape,  136 

Gratiola  aurea,  224 
Greenbrier,  15 

H 

Habenaria,  86 

Hardback,  92,  205 

Hasheesh,  130 

Hawk,  10 

Helgramite  worm,  124,  125 

Hepatica,  74 

Heron,  197 

night,  140 
Hickory,  9,  116 
Holmes,  Sherlock,  150 
Horn-pout,  101, 102,  103,  104, 
122,  127,  211 


Horse  brier,  15 
Houghton's  pond,  80 
Huckleberry,  28,  29,  205 

low-bush  black,  34 
H  u  m  m  i  n  g-b  i  r  d,    r  u  b  y- 

throated,  163 
Hyla,  66 
Hyssop,  hedge,  223 


Incas,  163 


J 


Jasmine,  Mexican,  163 
Joe  Pye  weed,  141 
Jotham,  221,  224 
Judas,  167 
June  beetle,  59 

K 

"Kiver,"  96,  97 


Labrador,  80 
Ladies'  tresses,  217 
Laurel,  sheep,  205 
Lepomis  gibbosus,  96 
Leprachaun,  78 
Lilacs,  190 
Lily,  dog,  136 

water,     134,     136, 

139,  212 

Lily-of-the-valley,  74 
Lucky  bug,  53,  54,  63 


137, 


239 


INDEX 


M 

Malachite,  207 

Maple,  9,  51,  52,  62,  82,  92, 
94,  116,  141,  227,  229 

Meadow-sweet,  205 

Memorial  Day,  50 

Merlin,  37,  39 

Metropolitan  Park  Commis- 
sion, 142 

Milkweed,  157,  158,  159,  160 

"Minister,"  101 

Minnow,  103 

Mocking-bird,  21 

Monarch  butterfly,  160,  161, 
162,  171 

Monitor,  54 

Moss,  sphagnum,  15,  80,  83, 
88,  142 

Moth,  155 
luna,  65 

Mourning-cloak  butterfly,  166 

Murray,  "Adirondack,"  148 

Muskrat,   43,   in,   142,   143, 
199,   200 

Myrica,  34 

N 

Night  heron,  140 
Nymphaea,  139 
Nymphs,  120,  122 

O 

Oak,  5,  8,  9,  92 

scrub,  15,  190 
Orchis,  purple-fringed,  86 


Oven  bird,  16,  17,  23 
Owl,  10 


Pan,  45 

Panama,  163 

Papilio  asterias,  169 

Partridge,  6,  37 

Partridge  berry,  74 

Perch,    yellow,    92,    99,    100, 

102,  103,  127 
Pickerel,  51,  211 
Pickerel  weed,  136,  137,  138, 

*39 
Pine,  9,  15,  16,  28,  60,  73,  74, 

77,  88,  112,  154,  219,  228 
Pipsissewa,  74 
Plymouth  Rock,  202 
Polypody,  124 
Ponkapoag  pond,  133,  135 
Poplars,  227,  229 
Pumpkin  seed,  96 
Pyrola,  74 


Q 

Quail,  220,  222 


Rana  virescens,  186 
Raspberry,  5 
Robin,  10,  13,  189 
Rocket,  sweet,  162,  163 
Rose,  wild,  4,  8,  52,  205 


240 


INDEX 


Santo  Domingo,  191 
Sassafras,  5,  232 
Sedges,  56,  60 
Skipper,  63 
Skunk,  198' 
Skunk  cabbage,  40 
Snake,  water,  126,  127 
Sparrow,  chipping,  12,  178 

English,    176,    178,    179, 
180,  181,  183 

song,  13 
Sphagnum  moss,  15,  80,  83, 

88,  142 
Spiraea,  52 

Spiranthes  gracilis,  217 
Squirrel,  197,  198 

gray,  62,  63 

red,  6 

Standish,  Myles,  135,  202 
Stephanotis,  163 
St.  John's-wort,  marsh,  206 
Strawberries,  wild,  33 
Stumpy  Cove,  201,  202 
Submarine,  54 
Sulu,  213 

Sunda,  straits  of,  213 
Sunfish,   92,   95,   96,   98,   99, 

100,  103,  126,  127 
Sweet-fern,  8,  33,  35,  45,  154, 

205 
Sweet-gale,  34,  45,  52 


Tanager,  scarlet,  188 
Terrapin,  84,  85,  88 

16 


Texas,  158 

Thorough  wo  it,  141 

Thrasher,  14 

Thrush,  10,  20,  30,  31,  35 

brown,  21,  28 

wood,  n,  12,  17 
Toad,  66,  129 
Torpedo  boat,  54,  99 
Trout,  82,  84,  96,  122 
Turtle,  spotted,  83,  84,  85,  88 


U 


Ulysses,  64 

Unio,  196,  199,  209,  210 

Unio  margaritifera,  195,  209, 

214 

Unionidae,  207 
Utricularia,  64 


Venus'  fly-trap,  206 
Viceroy  butterfly,  161 
Vireo,  119 


W 

Walden  pond,  80 
Warblers,  10,  14 
Wasps,  161 
Watercress,  82,  83,  86 
Water  shield,  136 
Water-strider,  55 
Watson,  Doctor,  150 


241 


INDEX 


Whip-poor-will,  30,  31,  35 
Wild  rose,  4,  8,  52,  205 
Willows,    92,     94,    98,    227, 

229 
Witch,  114,  125 


Witch  caps,  115 
Witch-hazel,    112,    113,    114, 
115,  116,  117,  124,  125,  129 
Woodbine,  4 
Woodchuck,  9 


242 


